Perched above creation like some gentle jury. Here to see the world crumble. We could build our temples to the sky, and farther. Yet never would they be tall enough to reach her. The child of the pendulum. Each turn and motion a reflection. One universe living its brief eternity and then passing off into oblivion. Since my words are objects like the pebbles of the earth I cannot speak of what they truly mean. But We all do fear the truth. We fear the idea that amongst the retched papers on which we place our lives, we wrote down all we are. That there is nothing more to this universe than the working and the lazy. That there is nothing more than the victor and the vanquished. We don't seem to get it. We all hang above the city of nonexistence, shouting our importance to one another, and ignoring the people that pushed our swing and helped us go higher. Forgetting the people whom matter, and exchanging them for the lies. We are all too busy telling each-other we matter, to actually make time matter. Swing on child of the pendulum, and let the mad shouting blare on. Until one person decides to listen instead of speak, and hear the music of Their soul.