Maya

If all is illusion
Why not act that way?
And not bathe for days
In goods and duka?

The many languages
And all the knowledge
Purport to be it
But they're not that!

And nature, what then
When a tree rustles
Shirking off the world
From out of its soil?

The work of nature
Only adoring the sun
That shines on beasts
As they are one

To say we're cursed
Would be a mild prognosis
A collection submersed
In perpetual over doses