“This is nothing”
says the one lone lobotomized god of lethargy,
stranded down between the swallowed walls of its pit.
The burrow its vast form hath made upon the plane of imagination.
Seeing it now as this, as nothing.
I say, “This is man. Beneath no sway but his own.”

Following after it there was nothing.
It smelt like a psycho born of primal force.
It breathed saliva made yellow by acid.
It dosed the senses into the negative flip,
within oblivion’s absent fabric.
It charged ahead, heedless of all around it.
It tore through dreams, as if it were a blind fury
let loose to prove a challenging foe within that
free association with color and realistic sound,
those real and unreal, dominates the dream.
It was invincible.
Nothing could stop it.
Destroyer of hopes.
Smasher of smiles.
Bleeder of the blind.
Without anything this or that side of magnanimity.
It was bluntly brutal.
It has become all and all has become it.
Charging on heedlessly devaluing what is.
Making it otherwise.
Bending what needs not a curve.
Complicating the complication with complications.
It must cease.