Our fluid etches and fizzes down ducts, herded by fickleness and the influence of domains, unwittingly we carve out tesseracts through which a thick oil seeps and no air remains.
Unmapped channels never passed through our ears, our intestinal blueprints have known them for years, this perimeter the closest we'll come to pinching our fingers between subconscious gears.
Our trust for man's prior faith guides our slow hand, claw only in directions we understand, absence of cure names outlet an elixir, having woken, we're happy to score the sand.
Undeterred by cave-ins and the promise of pain, we stomp down the crops and excavate again, within microns of bursting through cell-walls - one day we'll breach and may god help us then.
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