What comes around the cycle repeats around itself,
Escalation of time preceded by the focus of oneself,
Enough it has, enough it was, and enough it'll never be.
Why though ?
Nothing matters in quantity,
But only in imagination.
Whatever you perceive,
Gives in your process of leading your intrigue,
Leaked everything out.
Stigma in art is the aesthetic drought,
Vibrating every vibe in you to match up what you seek,
Repetitive , you know it,
Resistance is impossible.
Resistance, or is it your imaginary scarcity?
It's not that you can't resist the same thing,
It is non-existent inside your mind,
Only stationary in your perception.
Hold in, Hold in, Hold in,
Nothing's wrong at all,
It's just you,
You, and this material,
No, it's you, and your reflection,
Hierarchy is not the general template,
Hierarchies are only as set as ethics,
Ethics rule too much over,
You need not be one with it,
Nor you need not be as perfect as Nirvana.
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