Phone cord dangling as of Sand off the grain In the oceanIn this mirrorI sitDrowning doubts and insecuritiesWith the pointed tip Of the object mounted for the parasiteRotating across degree sectorsNever known to beingsMan yet woman nor even The ones who reach purposeful for lifeAs it tells them to own every secondOf their seemingly encompassing presentLike the wrapped ones they pray for on the blazing skylinesYes those revolutionary mindsWith capabilities that stretch the stratosphereCan comprehend the presumabledestination of my cardiac beat making appointments with specialists to replenish my inner drive and serving of a world that caters to those who promote unfathomable policies amongst our creators of a potential post development societyOne that blooms with the scent of creativity deserted from world pressure of pre contemporary societies deserted from the world of solitary currency infatuated curators.