Its imprint left on rock and flesh,
Flat Earth thought exists;
Layered strata of side steps,
Falses metamorphoses, cloaked legacies,
The pavement which we tread.
Liberated Souls gaze inward
With no map to limit their wanderings,
Depth no barometer of meaning,
But if they can't pull their finger out
Then they'll walk into a lamppost.