Borne under the good sign,
Or the bad,
If the enigma caught on,
to the trailing self,
it would be a question,
would the superlative,
be monstrous?
Or the make shift believer;
Would it all make sense?
Scribbles...
Either I have signed my life
or destroyed it,
In the pursuit.
It is the mental mind,
That produced this end,
The markings the etching,
That causes a chasm,
It will obliterate the skies!
Magnitude.
The sense of belittlement,
had been extinguished,
The tribes borne of the future,
would marvel at etchings,
Engraved in sand,
The beauty all extinguished,
Among the belittled beauty, at,
simple existence,
of complex life,
The hereditary displacement,
coherent to our establishment,

There is a latency
in progression,
The mixture's
Teeth,
Bind,
Conform
In singularity,
The future forgets itself,
the zen logic is missing,
between pustules,
between synapses,
between the heavy,
and the lucid.