Where is the sense?
There is no any.
It's just the combination made of
Letters,
Like days and nights which build, are put in
Line
But put them all together-
No
Thing
Matters...
It'd be a mix of tones,
Of smiles,
Of words,
Of hugs,
Of kisses,
Of parents
Of friends
Of everything that matters
Something in your life
But only in
Some
Line,
Some
Point
Of
Life.
And you would notice
Nothing
But
A mass of separately mixed-up cases.
And when it's time to clean the box of trash
Only by smell you'd find the traces
Of products you did like.
And like all food
It spoils,
Always.
No matter how much GMO
You put into the cells of organism
Of Paradise,
It'd be destructed with the oxygen of your
Sweet breathes
At days,
At nights
That you so hard try to grasp in,
That even it seems reasonable
To damage food with your presence,
Although
You didn't choose this
Piece
Of meat
Or anything
Into to crawl.