75 years of life left to die.
In the first five we are nothing but moving stones,
Sculpted and eroded by family and strangers.
70 years left to sleep as bones.
As partially sculpted David’s,
“Is this too late to change?” we think.
Time might be an illusion, but can still assassinate.
Just realize life is a sequence of blinks.
Genetics of my core self might be blood diamond,
Sometimes I want them changed but I am a slave.
Overcome the natural structures using logic.
To be the person of my fantasy long before going to the grave.
The map to paradise is unmade,
But there is one rule to not stray,
By way of reduction is the only solid way.
Until the deathbed we shall never know.