Classes described in cognomens,
Both Sur and Nick. They ply
Themselves, or we ply them
Into crisp little images of our imagination –
Little self-fulfilling prophecies
From over to over
Because if you believe it,
You can be it,
Unless of course you are it,
In which case you can continue.
Humans are so narrow,
Stagnant pools of cues
And predetermined thoughts.
To invent is to recreate
And to create is to assemble,
So we make mounds,
And we’re awful God-damned proud.
After time gets fed-up of artificial
Breakthroughs, the lens shifts, and
The obscured reality
Revolves to clarity –
The lines fill up the glass
To the point we ask ourselves
“Why is everything a sequel?”
Because we believed we became
And so fate is not so much a planned accident
But an unconscious decision
To imitate what we expected
Or what was expected for us.
