I spied the cracks, the Adventurous fellows they always were,
Running up walls, down the roads,
Through the buildings and the underground,
Every you look.

Who knows why they’re there,
Where they’re going,
Who and what they see,
What they search for.

Maybe they have dreams of seeing great lands,
The places of legends, of stories and tales,
The myth-spoken words down generations
The cracks would’ve heard it all.

Cracks searching for long-forgotten empires,
Cracks searching for Aurora Borealis,
Cracks searching for the Great walls and falls of history
Knowing only the gossip and tale-spinning we all speak.

Imagine that. Only being able to know what’s spoken,
Never being able to look information up,
Never verify anything with anyone else.
Just a witness to everything around you.

Maybe the cracks know everything or nothing at all.
Maybe they are adventurers that rival the greats.
Maybe cracks are the key to everything we want to know.
Or just mundane cracks. Who knows?



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