Sticks and bones, and dislocated homes. And parasites, and insights, And just let me make it to the mic. And you will see, There is a real mystery, To life, to love, to longevity. The poem above was written during recess, at a chartered school where I was employed as a General Assistant. Nestled behind Brick Church Pike was Smithson Craighead Academy's playground. Amongst the future Gen Alphas, and Thornburgs; the poem took flight. Sometimes, the external, and internal exploits of life are exactly as they seem.