Sometimes there's no fight to be won,
And no words guide to something better.
The gears that spurred each other on
Have since abandoned every letter
That has been carved
Some time ago,
And now the slab they're on begins to wear.
What's to be gained from an idea,
Without a human voice to hear?
How can a vision warp to bone,
When clay and ribs are short?
Now, who can tell the raw fodder apart?