The source of this life, redeems itself by design, when the world denies its obvious sustenance, and the ethereal describes this as purpose to accept fate and yet fight to it’s own end,

To reclaim every chance of failure as perfection compromised, yet to be achieved in essence, its organic components immobile to circumstance and a means to vent,

I believe it satiated a true nature & all it’s congruent oblivion, that tends to absorb the lowest fruit that hangs to descent, beyond all recognition of where it began,

Nor where it could ascend, a peace that reigns in complex states of equilibrium, second to none, that might necessitate an order to chaos or conscious resuscitation in turn decimating a deteriorating trend,

An inception of this cause, deserves a better means to belong, to find safety in the demise, to save the most lost, a story that unfolds the ages of this world as a scalpel it stole to cut through ties and the sense’s that control,

A mortal life that deserves a majestic combustion, an immortal one that yielded to another’s judgement, seethes for second chances, in an image to have tamed ambition.

Damned be poetic justice and alliterations,