In a drop of water: the world. In a grain of sand, cosmos.
Sitting on the table is the penultimate patient,
The mind has been gently blown to pieces of sentient
And the body grounded into a ficticious pulp
From lack of atmosphere by a mishapened gulp
All to unexist in creation of enthropic osmose.
Proposition: let it be sewn back and together by silver threads.
Once shape has been restored to this primordial clay
Thunder shall begin the first scene of the first act of this new play;
Puppets once actors could be moved back in place,
Could be pushed back in time through clever-patterned lace,
Mayhap even luck might turn back busts and turn back heads.
Observations enlighten but scatter – automation is of the latter.
What wood cannot bend and steel cannot perceive,
Flesh may replace as living avatar of what means to deceive;
Inconclusive results permit no absolute truth to be breached
Yet hope remains, lighting the way towards new heights to be reached.
Time is running out, night is waltzing in, shall this even matter?
To the idealist who has none, and to the realist who is done, look at the pessimist: he is gone.