Tempered In the Rage

There are no gentle movements into a calm goodnight there is a rage of intemperance in the stupidity of attempting to mark, as to be in memory there is no remembrance as one I arrived bare maggots my butlers, devouring each and every shedding, eventually being their main course and a life in circles moves a thousand years shall pass in the spinifex, the dust shall blow across the page of my existence scratching out all I ever was generations vortex from the future, and stretch through to brush my mind A memory before their time