Incripted,
designed to fit a designated format,
to pertain,
to all of humanity,
but destroy each breath inhaled.
Breathlessly we take in air,
never to enter -or forgo a way out of an exit.
Some rely on fate to remove them from the domain of insanity,
and be placed in a segment of love, joy and grace.
Fate,
is it in exsistence,
or just a sadly intolerable excuse to believe in something.
We of robotic inadaquacy,
perform in 24 hrs a period of pain, paranoia, and a slight glimpse of
happiness.
What of those who see significance,
in a numbed world of sand and stone,
comply the reason for dilusional images,
to shape a reverie of a world unknown?
 
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