One claims to be a model.
Who wishes to mold it
when convictions are driven by ignorance,
when experience is defined by quantity?
The detestment progeny stems from gods
cultivates out of sentience,
that which derived from life.
Linguistics become the new taboo,
broadening suppressed by the overshadowed,
consideration simply sound in space.
Becoming so self obsessed with an image
not painted with pastels or oils on canvas
but by the impermanence of a dissapointing work
or a digital universe,
the one craved so dearly,
renders one tainted with the picture of
Perfection.
Perfection.
Never will it be defined, but by those who claim to possess it.
It is unreachable, and therein lies that which we seek.
