The Sum

Crossing your horizon of evidence Existing painfully within design— Down to the last crass moment of suspense Suspending in this blacked-out mind of mine. You did your best at how you don’t belong— By following the heart inside your pique, As usual, my will returns it wrong— Resulting in your copy cracking quick. Foiled once again by all your good gods; Peddling backwards slipping on the peels— Oh how I wish you weren’t raised by frauds And I could smoke your black magic ideas. For anything at all— I’d trade you fate. For everything and all will culminate.