i rationalize that all gods are made of supremacy.
their fever is riveted by the public’s eyes.
days and nights are stretches in the toiling of human hands.
in the quest of endearing is logic of relief.
i cannot bend my timeworn philosophy.
what’s something true; it’s killing the bogus—
no misleading signs, no ignoble pride,
the revolution of many civilians does not give a notice—
abrupt currents of discords and arguments.
influx, now the politically correct archetype,
dressed in linens and satin of ignorance.
a parade of massive indulgence to influence—
i cannot control what is natural.
dealing ends in the profit of several minds.