While the world assumes its focal point to be someplace,
The real events unfurl elsewhere
In the peripheries of eyes, just round the corners
Pitched battles over pitchfork issues
Come to a close when the Sun’s gone behind the lantana bushes
To scorch ground and sinews on the otherside of an ending.
We think it’s over, when it hasn’t even begun;
We think we are dead, when we haven’t even been concieved;
We fear we are losing, when they haven’t even begun taunting;
We decide we are the ones moving, when the Earth turns one last time.