Mildness of Truth

Perceptions are like small dot-size holes
On a sky-length wall —
The point of our meditation
The convergence of our concentration
The foci of our actions
The road of our present
And the route to our future
A formlessness, a presence,
Yet we bind it with our reality
Consider it the only truth
Indulge in immature judgments
Heighten our egos just on one basis
And in that small subjectivity
We try to stuff our essence
To jar the wall
And let neither the time flow
Nor we floweth out of it.