proud to believe in whats true

Swaying to the music.

Thinking of nothing.

Persuading yourself to breathe intentionally,

Forced ignition blasts holes in an empty ceiling,

You feel fleeing feelings in the fibers of your being,

As your philosophy melts in the crock pot of your efflorescent soliloquy,

Blooming out of unrecognized affection,

And refutable conviction,

Stigmatized, dogmatized and personalized into a concoction of unstable inflection,

A jagged protection from the projections of your damned imperfections,

Contrived collections of static connections,

Put together by eclectic silk worms working overtime to alternate through clandestine corrections,

On a track to the end of that line,

into the beginning of another,

outlined by cosmic conception,

carried through intention into the body of a masterful reflection,

merely a sample of your resurrection.