It is hard to focus,
It's only when the noise is cleared away,
I see the world's for us,
The moments are so far and few between,
It is like existence,
Is only a jumble of distractions,
Woven into a fabric, thick and dense,
But you must massage your hands against it,
Float to every corner,
Be sensitive to the nicks and moth holes,
A space fabric roamer,
What does that mean?
I cannot concentrate,
Maybe I'll know after clearing my head,
Or through the fabric, I may see my fate.