II
we live in small suburbic towns
where everything was uniform and in concordant
we were confined behind white picket fences,
circumscribed to our duplicated routines
and seem to reason every single thing
DECEIT WAS OUR IDIOSYNCRASY
far northeast was a clocktower perfectly enclosed
with roman cities and ancient carved marbles
everything was the same northeast
but we admire and admire and admire
because we never seem to gratify
DECEIT WAS OUR IDIOSYNCRASY
but we were fools and we never know
there was a war raging in the thither
we were still not pleased with satisfication
so we cloud ourselves with euphoria
and hurtled miles away to the clocktower
don't you know?
we are endlessly enduring
we use our encompassing vigor to move gears
until our impedimentum fractures piece by piece
we went to get fooled by falsehood
because deceit is an idiosyncrasy to all
one day we reached a state
where we had gotten too fed up with moroseness
our crestfall had led us to an aftermath:
we turn the gears backwards
and backwards the hand goes
we recollect our childhood phantoms
of clockwork enigma and façades
and all the paracosm beneath
but the past the whole town become
for we seem to anchor everyone down
don't you know?
we now live like clockwork escapement
tick tock goes our taciturn footfall
but we go running in abiding circles
and power up a damnable pendulum
that spontaneously afflicts us
ironically in the most untimely of times
DECEIT IS OUR IDIOSYNCRASY
BUT WE GET OURSELVES BACKFIRED
so help me,
oh but don't pour your numinous gospel
and philosophical traits forcefully on me
tell me, what's your damn point?
if you claim you want me an imperishable life of fathomless divinity
i'd say i've lived long enough to say i am not worthy of it
