[Objective]

I've been roasted for eons, dreams descended in ash,
haunted by nature's parasites along with its predictable crash.
Humans; evolution's most intelligent trash festered in cash,
contested by rash decisions as destructive visions amassed.
I see tension build as parents whimper ''he's growing too fast...'',
not knowing the source comes from the force of ''how long will I last?''
And the equation of existence is confronted by scholars with math,
we fail to see that the answer to our lives is just a part of its path.
All while a butterfly escapes from this wrath with passion inside,
science made up a language to explain the passion that died.
If adding numbers to predict when asteroids hit isn't foreseeing the future,
then the wounds of humanity doesn't understand the nature of suture.
I bet that it suits you, and I'd lie if I didn't agree,
it's just that I hate to see so much of you within me.