His world was finite,
With colors of yellow, green, and orange
And a little bit of brown.
His world was speckled
on all sides of him;
All three sunset walls.
The only variable was at the zenith,
where the familiar orb shone,
and presented his world amongst dark and light.
The walls were high and smooth,
dusted yellow and sweet smelling,
Glazed with sugar.
His people revered them
as the ends.
They were satisfied with the walls,
because they were finity.
They knew what was around,
Underneath, and above,
The only things that extended those walls,
were the pillars.
The four tall pillars, and the one short pillar.
Sometimes they rained soft yellow blessings,
and baptized us
When the world danced and swung.
No one could touch the pillars.
No one could climb the pillars.
The pillars were forbidden.
They were revered.
He was one who did
and presented a theory
to surpass the quiet finity.
"What shakes the world?" He wondered.
"What makes her dance?"
As he abandoned finality.
With a sticky grasp, he left the first end,
climbing towards the second,
in motion with the third.
There were cries of return
And tears of ferocity
that echoed among the sunsets,
comparable to nothing.
With ignorance of the clamour,
he chased the orb in encore.
Getting closer he felt a sensation,
that reflected the sunsets.
and appeared to him as foreign.
He began to become the walls, slowly but surely,
as the intensity grew
And his grip was slipping.
Losing sense of all time,
his feet longed for something he refused to grant:
Afraid of contagion,
The clamour had grown silent.
They embraced , like everything else, his end.
He knew, like no one else,
that he was infinite.
And that the ends are only illusions.
The illusion of an end drove them to nothing,
the counter could only welcome him to everything.
And just like that, the walls ended,
and the pillars were met.
The yellow blessing was given to him,
and among the walls,
there was, forever, an infinite world.
He had become the Messiah,
But only insignificant,
to that now before him.