This is not the fields of grass
Or the way they never rest.
This is not the concrete streets
Or the cars that die when they meet.
This is not the blinded people,
Taking steps with concrete feet.
Splashing through the water in the gutters
on their way to their shifts,
their life and their death.
This is not in the Manhattan skyscrapers
or the suburban homes,
When through the windows, all we can see is black.
These people don't exist and these buildings are paper.
This is not in the epidemic called Humanity.
What kind of place is this,
Where Insanity breeds out in the open
and breathes our City Pollutions.
This is not in our computers.
Cold circuits and terabytes can’t hold meaning,
They can only find it.
Anything and everything, it’s all too close,
Laced in with the rest of the world.
This is not in the books.
Pages and pages of hypotheses
with fancy numbers to make it true.
But some of us still believe that we haven’t found a thing.
This is not in our clocks.
They keep our beat without complaint,
and we use it up without restraint.
It was never time that did us wrong.
This is not in the children.
Fragile innocence and easy laughter can’t hold us together physically.
They are looking for answers too.
This is not in our hearts
or our minds
or our eyes.
This is so much bigger than us.
This is not in the rain.
It soaked the ground in hues of blue.
Made the cabinbound insane.
They could not wait to find the heart of the storm.
This is not in the light.
The sun keeping no secrets and bathing us in infinite color.
But it does not know anything.
This is not in the mist that sits in the fields,
lit by the sunrise that we watch from our windows.
This is not in our hospital  beds
That we waste away in as the cold machines keep us moving
Keep us watching as the hourglass mocks us all.
This is not in that last grain of sand,
Falling innocently to the bottom,
Entirely unaware of Humanity.
This is not in our death.
Because it never existed,
But we searched our whole life for this meaning

Until we forgot how to live.