He seeks them, but they doubt his existence,
For what is life, but in the living?
And the lifeless?
Toss aside the ashes of simplicity,
For they are not why the child thinks, believing, but not seeing, and true
all the same.
He sees their faults,
The cool whisper of a stranger echoes through the innocent,
But the breath is silenced, for it is not truly there.
He stares at the pale whiteness of his flesh and reaches out,
To nothing but empty air.
There is no feeling anymore.
There was nothing for him,
Only emptiness. Only regret.
He forgets what everyone says,
Nothing that has changed in their world will ever be set.
Though He is to be remembered.
His ideas are lost to the span of time,
And for the rest of them?
A lifeless existence.
There is no one to look to for help, only still silence.
They canít see him.
They didnít know him.
And though he wanted them,
Dreams fail too often to be goals.
And goals are only for the inspired.
So He watches His own shadow,
If someday he will disappear too?
The answer, he finds in his step.
And leads him towards the beginning of Creation.
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