I have a little story,
One I'm sure you've heard.
Of my own worry,
Conceived from a single word.
It glistens and sparkles in the sinking mid-day sun,
Enjoyment for all those passing time.
Its elegance and flow can never be undone,
A necessity for our climb.
It is undeniably pleasant,
But our ability to look beyond its exquisiteness fails.
And while we were given a present,
They neglected to disclose the details.
Our knowledge must be beyond fundamental,
With this incompatible force.
Its power surpasses transcendental,
And yet we follow the same path, and intersecting course.
Deceptive in its common beauty,
Slipping away like grains of sand.
A helping hand from your friend Demone Benvenuti,
Yet still fierce, wicked, and uncontrollably grand.
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