We play on fine sensibility and logic.
We look spaces between our words
And words are best approximations.

Now we play along with the artists
Who had their own approximations
That tended to infinity not stopping.

They reach  approximate pie value
But not its core beauty that is truth
In deep ocean, surrounded by tiger.

The tiger is a meager approximation
In a blue ocean with a rocking boat
Where the parents tended to infinity.

Beauty is not truth, only tends to it
When you divide it by your nothing.
Like parents it tends to your infinity.

Your truth is infinity’s not stopping,
Tending to it, divided by your zero
The spaces in words lapsed in time.

(recalling the beautiful movie The Life of A Pie)