To Late

What is my simple failure…

In this great escape I feel as if I’m spinning, past present and future all blurry like when first you wake to the mornings dawn. Seems to me forever is the time I spend trying to remember my purpose, or any other fixed point lingering to my subsisting verbiage. To whence doth the belligerent eye yet fear to look at the way made yesterday hence. I seek a furtherance of grandeur in such slender becoming. To true a mind fears nothing but what makes a life deepen to an expounding of meanings. The vectors of which a fascination for life and a proliferation blooming with trials of death and rebirth.

To what odious aspects draw the curtains on the acts of the world, making my sight see the empty spaces to which society lies upon. A husk of culture hollowed out, robbed blind, stolen by the avarice of the masses. To be nothing if not consumable, and so to we must make or own existences cannibalistic. For the way of old has been broken and changed to be something seen as unwanted. But to those of us who clinge to that passing age, only true loneliness and scarcity of self remain for we few that last and slowly give in, wasting are uniqueness, bleeding our ancient reverence. Finally resolving towards increasing entropy, hiding so well the pieces of yourselves the made us. Pretending for a lifetime, trying to feel nothing, cause it hurts to think you lost a self you faintly remember yet know without question it was you that let it all dissolve away.

What’s the time now…

I hate seeing how far passed to late it really is.

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