Nothing
Comes
Becomes
Nothing
Fixated on things
To never come

Oh we the tourtured
Totter on
Staring at the untied laces
As to avoid the harsh irisis
Stuck in their sockets

No, no
I'll stick it to no one

It'll wait till the cocksure lions
Have finished their feast
And scrape the Marrow of ethics

Golden Marbles in their place
Shake and burn
Core, core

Confine in a box
Bring the musty tattered pages of
Wise men
Dead and gone
Their words live on
Through the ages hope and insight
Has stuck to the pages

Hell is sanctuary
When God has abandoned you
Put the lid on
Put the lid on
Burrow in thought

Nay, trudge
In hopes
That my calories may be
Burned into the ambitious minds
Of phtogographic memories