The Book is Being Written

And so amidst our burning, churning sun Lay the stories unfurling of our learning selves: Whether we bemoan the weather and its turning course Or relinquish trepidation to the skies. Said stories are blurred with burdened minds; Afflicted by the conditions of our own. And per scene, per act why won't see The edits of greater struck to us leads. I wish you could see as much as me, As much as we can see you be. Silent awe in the fruits you bore And with it, brilliant glee. We adore the world you've built unwitting Of the growth that took its place. For if merely being with intent alone Can steer our ragged masts, Then perhaps our images we hold in silent Can progress as we have asked.

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