Some suns plead playfully to shine in our hearts,
echoing the rapid beating of the waterfall.
Some sounds lurk lackingly, waiting for the night to die,
echoing the rhythms of a sobbing candlelight.
We are echoes of our otherselves,
and our otherselves are echoes of chaos.
The unity of the self is but a mirage
whereby chaotic choruses are left to rummage.
We are better off offering ourselves the respite to rest
by giving up all pretense that our souls are blessed,
for we are, after all, only liquid matter
bound by meshed borders of emptinesses fleshed.