Then the shell that you made,
Flexible as far you could make it,
Burst suddenly and the yolk
Sprang forth as a bird
And flew away.

Broken shells are your reward,
And you ponder why and question your virtue,
As the air that filled the volume of your life escapes,
And you scramble to find something
To bind your essential elements together.

Synthesising a new mode from remnants that seem stale.
To find a new world is hard.

Especially as there’s so little time.
The potential frame of reference is more confined.

Regardless of your best intentions,
I’m afraid
You’ve yet again
Passed the big questions on to the next generation.
You just didn’t have time.


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