Victory over passion is worth such rememberance
And its only the doubtful who appreciate
The casuality of relations less dense
Which the superficial would create

And if the conscious wish reiterates
Its intoxicating fantasy
Time will slump and cease to procreate
That mind-numb state of infancy

Suspicion towards potential ecstasy
Then seems not bright nor bleak
But a state of boring nascency
A child whose faith they shall not seek

To not put trust towards a blissful peak
This man will have no name
Nor sex, nor strength - they shall be meek
And every day remain the same

And so if bland and eternally tame
Should one seek to rub the genie's bottle
And stock trust with Cupid's blessed aim
Blind - shall we seek to be toppled?

Lest our lives continue to be throttled
By the reoccuring adjective inconsequential
And all its synonyms that we seek to battle
If we lose all, are we still venial?

Life seems so numbered and sequential
We defend ourselves for reasons
Myself a slave, seeming so menial
I've placed my stock in these so called demons.
  

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