we are but voids

We are but voids which oscillate in the memory of Fortune
To those who identify closest to the calamity of consumption submit to the absence of the remainder - that which justifies our clinical outreach for solidarity
Solitude can cultivate the harem of replenished fearfulness devoured by the blackest dying days in obstinacy
Crackle under reticence when frail bones of manufactured youth
A trophy to a life once sought when the ticket's torn and the ride is through
But who will take the photograph in the spacious mind of the most ignorant of a mob
Let's hope for gerunds
We rule our lives tight-fisted with blades to our wrists and ropes around our sour necks that spit the words to start the falls of blood spilling on top of forsaken soil
The gods are dead just as the men awake, moving to clear our souls of the sins inhabited in corpses walking through the motions of a stagnant species
We reach for power, tainted strips tantalized by desires forlorn
Projections of the pages lay the feathers on dry bones for waste as if created
That last downfall seemed to undo them all
Why hope for more when leftovers are stolen from those making security for others who throw it away - tossed into a blaze that burns away the development of mechanical time
The frame which pictures us in a glazed underworld committed to a support of beings who can't support themselves
Whose love is purchased at garage sales of waves through the past and juxtapose the self desire to radiate through identity with the master of our guidance in ways through paths drawn over with sticks through sand and tide over a soft workspace for statehood
Sell yourself and reap the profit of the benefit we extend - to ours - to one
We can find it if we lose it all, the things that have been given to us by robbers in the night of shadowy justice, the crooks of mathematics square our income like barons
Keep steady those tired eyes on the harrowing journey we've already completed
It feels like we've been here before
Let's exchange eyes and view the world from our feet, they cross the same path yet make a single trail in the fragment of psychotic historical minds, a systematic method for the incessant bong rips of humanity
Each birth a test of death to get a lick sweeter than before, we've all killed and some innocence may be claimed of those who sport blood on self-crafted garments
Adorned with ignorant virtue we appear never appear as perfect as we are, not on the inside but of the side betwixt the dice of life