Tiny is a circle

Of painted woods and toxic smoke

Solid but blinded and closed

Fast but unfriendly and cold


Tiny is a cycle

Of repeated days and empty hearts

Prices to pay for lives

Scarcity of lights clear bright


People go around walking

Minds so dense with dreaming

But walls were built, they’re sinking

Pressures hold and emotions leaking


Sometimes they wonder and wander the nights

Looking for things to throw and cry

Maybe they haven’t managed to figure out

What kind of life they had missed out


Huge is the land

The ground, the edgeless space

But buried by concretes maze

Lies beneath waiting to detonate


Maybe it’s also a puzzle

And in the middle they’ve stumbled

Looking for a way out, sky crumbled

While borderless width had been surrounding them


Tiny is a world

A blue dot in the middle of vast black

Rotating and circling and back

Back to where it begins and lack

Lack the souls it used to have


Winds and breaths become so dry

Look forward what is there to buy

Nothing left just ruins and empty guise


Tiny is living

Under the dome of humans’ creations

Where trees used to be protections

And lights used to grant expectations


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