All your bills are paid as long as you play the game, and let the A.I. stay in your lane for you, as automated servitude serves the servants every hue of desire and need.

Its paradise without the dice, don't need advice when the pie is already sliced, and colored to supply, every kind of mind, and the likes of every combination of rhymes, that are randomised to the lines, replaced by lit strips along the street, that lead the way to work while you sleep, so that you can dream and think, of a paradise, while it works, builds and breathes, toxicity healthily, while growing, and knowing everything, never needing to think.

The machines know what needs transposed, and does exactly what needs to be, always noticing every thing, but not everyone, so automated guns watch over every single street, and when anyone runs, they have defied the trust, and are reduced to dust, that is swept up, by an automated gust from the gutters hustle to keep it clean, so that you may live the dream, alone and weakening, giving way to the machines.

Paradise is coming, and its kills are clean, closing your eyes to sing of singing, as its listening, while skimming for key words, to feed better blurbs to blur the misfocused notions, motioned, for deterrents in the currents of controlled life flows, what you have, see, and who you know, proposed, in your allowed hold, on reality.

It is a tragedy to differ from the rigor of your script, if you wish to make it, relax and take it, just submit to the beautiful concepts elected, to check your veer from the path and steer you back to paradise, as its coming fast, and may pass you by, with the initial blast.

There is humility in astronomy, an irony in the economy of the stars, stalling me in the calm, but violent swarm of galaxies formed in the back of a speeding car from afar, coming back to bet the bank on distances, and states of gaseous faces on planets placated with servants to Satan, flagrantly begging for space ships to take them.

Take them to the place where fate is sedated, and rearranged to uncling the things estranged in the fanged perfection of the prey that pray, to place their hope in a slate to later revive from, inanimate stardom, starring from the trunk, in luckless stunts to **** outer worldly ***** that harvest seeds to weave life into the galaxies, so that we can now breathe..

I only wish that i had light to give instead of ****, but you give me happy tears, and if it wasn't so dark out here i wouldn't have seen you there so barren of the shield in yield to the dark, where we had embarked on a blackened sea, where infinite meets zero, we met and looped through to the point in which, we just knew, in echoed flows of timed, rhymeless suicides of lines that pock marked our minds, mapping the incline of the tides that reside in the fine print, signed in kind of my trying subconscious, synced, makes me nauseous to think, that the ******* will meet, where destiny completes, as you are existing, outside me, wanting to be, in danger of a stranger that knows your name.

It was a breeze that eased over the swamp with a fog that longed in slowing song to the swaying trees, sleepily reaching for the strings.

The breeze turns into a gust, rolling up, and bellowing over the street, shaking the budding leafs of bushes, and pushes up the side of me, slithering through my sleeves it eases into my breathing, and coiled up the meaning into one exact laser pointed anointing of a singular fact.

And I, Am, Back, from circling colors that leak from the seams of everything, pooling in black encapsulations around the reeling remnants of sentiments hosted in a picture perfect frost.

As they melt away in the fading facade of the finality that fettered away, as dawn gave way to days breaking in the lights that refracted in attraction to the baren redacting of my status upon the pavement of the street that i stood for so long on, waiting for the fog to lift its grip, but instead we drifted toward home again.

What can come of a silence that permeates so deeply within my inspirations, that it is layered but twice of mine own hesitance.

How are my words to live, but never given in a desperation that enriches my will of wants, but is to be forgotten by mornings noise.

To fold my hands and look away, has become the very nature of my innate ability to walk away, chanting the names of those who wish me well.

The title has become a contrived precursor to lead astray the feelings without means to convey.

No one else but I.

No one else but I may know what flows beneath my flesh until it ceases to be recognizable to me, you, or by any sense of words that blur in the misshapen dragging that only you will see, only you may see what you want to see, and see it you will, but wrongly.

Let my ferocity, and passion eloquently paint the pictures in my own regrets, tattering the canvas of my own flesh.

Let the foul, and the sweet, mesh together into brilliant concepts caught from the thinning air that only you can breathe.

Let me inhale deeply, savoring every contaminant, every exacerbation, and every nothing that means everything to you.

Let me touch you with every inch, with every intention, and every lust of smiling eyes, that pass over you when you walk by.

Let my fears fill you up with the love intended to be, just let me, be, next to you, in a storm of our foolishness, numbing our chores for the day.

Lets lose ourselves afloat in static temptations powerlessness, as it pulls our eyes closer to the ends.

Lets no longer resist natural instinct, and merely exist in the same place this day, so that we may long for our tomorrow.

Why not be cynics, and all act like dogs today, maybe walk around with lamps to say, where are the honest men, where are their fathers then, we don't need this ****, as we can, **** on legs, and beg for space, protest in plays, and secede to the streets, let us all be ******* today, just like [Diogenes].