Little patterns

Little patterns we make; breathe out our soul,
subconscious footprints,
washed away,
by population,
but how very scared we are to acknowledge our tread is light,
our balance altered by those who care not,
about shoe size, or stride,
but risk the very fabric we sacredly will not stretch,
as a mere tear would pave the road to hades,
but not amongst these men, the men of future, of science, of immortal thought,
they test the very affliction of substance,
and with it make the line, that we must toe,
they unravel in simplicity,
what pattern, what breath, what soul.