Behind the wood washed sandal of sandalwood
Lies a scent, without a handle
Pictures framed and placed on mantles
Who are we?
We do not see our fragile mantra
Ignorant bliss we hold like axes
We do not feel the piece that matches
We must be one place exactly
We are ever free and sometimes reckless
Who are we?
If not souls beyond the reckoning
We try our best, our voices beckoning
Somehow still it ends trajectory
Curving lines and missing objective goals
Obscene holes is a system's cause
Divide the lanes and call one yours