Deep into the midnight
below the gleaming star,
I stepped on the running wall — the creation of Nirvana,
lights.
Heaven's an enigma
a forged between the steely and the curve
the star's collision and the minor parts
have the iciest heart — a grain of Truth.
Prophesy the future,
shuffle the sheets
and let them look at
your eyes — does it carry the dullest truth?
Or a blundered ignorance?
Does the dawn of the newborns
form the hallowed mysteries
of heaven's plea?
Into the Unborn
where the sky holds a mere certainty.
You climb long — to match the moon's faint
and the beaming sunlight;
where the galaxy
was just as narrow
as the strange fragments
of what we see?
Then if beneath us was the roaring storm,
will it expose the unborn?
Will the dream catch us
when we fall asleep?
Into the future.
this is what happens when we have a clear vision of our dreams, yet an obscure journey we'll have when we try to reach it.
we tend to overlook the hardest part, yet so easy for us to be in a figment of our imagination.
can we unfold the existence of Truth?