What is this something so different about this poetry that chills,
Never rusts with the old words, combines with new phrases of wills.
What is your will is my command but they are false my dear,
Falsely translating the will of the Earth everywhere in fear.
The brave are the ones who walk in the mind one step at a time,
Carefully, reaching the climb to see a clear view of the regime.
And an owner of all the things whatever you call them,
Them, are you too, living the dream that befalls shame?
Just dreaming was the point that is the distance in the two,
An observer sees only a charge in negative, and positive too.
Typing are the hands and fingers but watch who blames you,
Won’t matter because for me you are just a part that is true.
Whose are these words, yours, mine, or combined?
Even Wisdom of unnecessary only helps the self-defined.