Was the world ever tame,
was the work of mankind ever done,
did we believe we'ld watch the world
work better with our intervention,
our flood preventions failing, time after time,
then came the fuel from eons too distant, as time flees,
we trust the expositors, setting knowledge in foldable
orders of value, secrets worth keeping to use in consort.
Having witnessed the intention declared, the prophet,
bows and backs away, laughing to himself, happy hunting,
here I come, seeking something I may distantly need,
not now, though, ghostly ghucking surrealism seems
certainly, this pose, the position I hold, paid for repose,
bending certain assumptions into gumptions taken on odds,
you bet I can't make myself let you read my mind.
I win.
I feel like I made the choicest of all the options, I kept living, long after I lacked any external provocation... to claim a muse uses you, submission is what once was deemed man's highest liberty in formless spirit.
