the author says the universe is a complex enigma.

One that's comparable to the mathematical sigma

that force breaking the astro-nomical complacency,

he who built the rings of this slow-moving galaxy.



Are there are still pages yet to be written and tales

of those yet to be told? Do I dare wonder if the nails

driven in this withered casket of the whole will keep

shut, the lid and hide their true pain in the deep



submersion of one's nonfictional creativity? But why

would anyone open a book that is composed of a lie

built on the faulty foundation of those sacred stories

that shalt never be cleansed of the truths so gory



we would be ashamed to admit the greatest of all fiction

is the divine babble placed in such holy description

yes a bloody cruel rapture of the universe at its core

for never the losers who write the tales, it's only the victor



authors notes: been a minute but i like this one and these poems are some of my favorite to do but it does take the right mood and the right mindset. thanks always 360