A dance to the centre thus seen in all,
The calculable amorality of space and time.
Subject of pondering and famous doubt, though prophet!
- This world's not thine!
A golden measure of olden wise-men, still checks all that is known
And honored libidinal zests, bereaves the wise of what is owned
So for probity, scallywags! For rectitude against the wrong
Stride in life for beauty, and neglect the holy writ:
Sub specie aeternitatis, cognito, memento mori
Clearly.This order of thine is truthful, whence all impericalists dwell in hell
As far as uprightness goes dear primate, it keeps thee safe within thy shell
Romance enlightenment, all buried in the past
As the dark ages and the very knowledge of thy right
From the Temple of a Virgin to a house of God
We have journeyed through each night
Damn near comprehending, the pointless and never ending
That evident charm of shallow nostalgia, is just so fucking far away
A singularity of sentience, draining, its own grounds
Profoundly obscured and thus on loosened bounds
But out of man's injustice to logic and self-procurement,
In the very shadows of its asphyxiated gloom of martial law and infomercials,
We who fail bereavement on man's petty culture and all its ensuing troubles
- Caught in the unmistakable scent of advantage,
Albeit in an unwanted future, albeit in feeble collective lineage.
For it does stand to reason that we be damaged as the rest, by now.