In digging for the final Why,

to resolve what makes us cry,

should we bow to a lie,

or should we look beyond the sky?

When curiosity turns to lust,

in whom can we trust,

on whether we are light or we are dust?

In our quest, not for stories but for more,

for the lowest ground floor,

will we quench the fires in our core,

or halt at a self-locked door?

If by fate or by chance,

the door were to budge its stance,

if we had just a glance,

of before the stars were in bloom,

when space and time were in the womb,

would we see The great Source,

that compels us to change course,

or is this hope just a fling,

and behind the door not anything?