Eggshells

There is this place:
This sweet space,
This pretty sky,
This fresh weather,
The silly myself, though.

There is this way:
This yellow street,
This wet soil,
This guide line,
The eggshell road, though.

There is side one of me:
This silly of smile,
This beg of space,
This widh of desire,
The will of trust, though.

There is side two of me:
This real of frustration,
This seat of oppression,
This feel of compulsion,
The actual deal, though.

There is side #^(n+1) of me:
This day I apologize
This day I surrender
This day I resign
The fate of myself, though

Every side of me tried to reach out,
This part of me will not walk out,
The path of eggshells is scrambled now,
The step after step was not thought out.

There is the end with no oz magician, priest, nor atheist able to work and think things through to build up our new preaent bridge when our past wall is still arising throughout our future door.