There is a constant that strikes
the ways and forms
of vast living-like creatures.
There’s a carving need of connection.
To love, to live, to give,
And we all wax poetic-like phrases,
waiting for them to have a meaning,
waiting for us,
to have a meaning.
Meaning is made of everything we haven’t invented words yet.
And yet, we excuse behind them,
to justify the things we cannot deal with.