There is but one story,
Playing slightly out of tune,
Symbols through the looking glass,
The sea reflecting moon.
Each minute forms a new existence,
Bits of rapture and fleeting emotions,
A thousand years is but an instant,
The past holds frozen in the distance.
They say you cannot understand this life,
And live it simultaneously.
You must give in; let it sweep you up,
To give coherence to the mystery.
We can fly around as birds,
Forming intricate and subtle patterns,
Creation birthed of imperfection,
The sea rejects no rivers.
This ride requires no explanations,
We are choreographers of this dance,
Authors of our stories,
Creators of our chance.