The poetry of thoughts shines despite the deceit
That lies beyond the kingdom of the forgotten
For it is otherwise shackled by the extraneous resolve
To bind it to mortal forms with the cross of the sheet

And the hammer of the pen.

From this mere p*rversion one can't help but marvel
At the speed upon which we surrender to defeat
And stand ready to relinquish newfound heavens
For the sloppy aesthetics of poetry and prose

And the fate it can't but meet.

For we walk alone on the quicksand of time
And it swallows us whole before we dare speak
So breathe the fresh air before it goes stale
And let every moment be a chance to exist

For it is swaying on the edge.