Within the untidiness of youth.
In the hubris of one’s retched retrospection.
Lies the unadulterated proof.
The key to the grand overseeing iris.
Tumbling towards a sure place.
The sire of one’s perfection in grace.
Gleeful in the mirror of solitude.
A pain in the side of ostentatious truth.
Through the tunnel of worlds.
Passing along the highway of hedonism.
Looking for the exit of true beauty.
Searching for the route to externality.
One thing; and one thing alone.
Captivated in the world of pure unknown.
Perpetuated in the prophets crypt.
There lay a man, eyes towards the dark sky.
A thought that the world exists in unfaltering night.
Maybe it does; maybe it does not.
Can one be sure of all that is lost.