There sits a deity wrapped in shredded pain,
Around the veil engulfed of gain,
Striving no more than thirty sticks,
Divided by the five bricks,
Whatever makes it six,
Reverts all attention back to an anguished origin,
Dilating all roads of morning glories into trembling stings;
A precious remedy of hindering fixation,
With no rhythm,
And or no schism,
Throwing a soothing parable,
At birds made of cosmic immaterial affectation:
Rinsing off a temptation of prediction,
Accordingly hallowing a contemporary aphorism,
Molded by a string of fine decaying prism.
Albeit evading over and over,
The evasion of being under the aqua,
Appealed to none’s observation,
For billions of stations rest unfathomed by
the alpha,
Ergo no need to put at stake the bestowed deed of incomprehension towards omega.
-Othello D. Gomes
