Tending the light
at the end of the tunnel,
the magical mystery
that plagues the
                     consciousness of
you and I
becomes nothing more
than sinister
        celestial laughter.
A fallacy to some,
filled with redemption
for a penny per sin,
paths are carved and
driven into existence by
wear from
        constant
                      treading;
a symbol of the depth
of the mind’s dark aptitudes
to conceive and believe.
Simplicity overrun by
                  complex, anti-intuitive
conceptualizations of
the infinitism of
beginning
                 and end.