This land is a wonder, brimmed with the shadows, the by-product of always dazzling lights,
the glitter flowing from those twinkling eyes, are a sight to behold, but, it will eventually die,
this is a inner turmoil, white washed and inscribed again,
this is the painting of unsattisfaction that we don't decorate.

The oceans' may be deep, but what they are, when the man can't swim,
and if we are meant to sink, then what...