What's been captured in thismoment appears so strange.
A fragment of a spectacle brilliantly colored being rearranged.

Indescribable as it may truly be, it's so great an ordeal that its significance can't be relievd

this secret that I clutch, hidden in the flesh of my palm
is the single thing that can be proved neither right nor wrong.

there's a mangled mix of frosty hatred and burning love that can only decribed with no intensity residing above

so what is this truth that we hide from ourselves? This thing we try so hard to convey with closed mouths?

feelings are what we acknowledge inside, and the means of which motivation provide.

it works meticulously to shape our perspective,
remaining ambiguous, so much as objective.

it's simple, the feelings that we believe we hold
are the essential foundations of the clay pictures we mold