Classes described in cognomens,

Both Sur and Nick. They ply

Themselves, or we ply them

Into crisp little images of our imagination –

Little self-fulfilling prophecies

From over to over

Because if you believe it,

You can be it,

Unless of course you are it,

In which case you can continue.



Humans are so narrow,

Stagnant pools of cues 

And predetermined thoughts.

To invent is to recreate

And to create is to assemble,

So we make mounds,

And we’re awful God-damned proud.



After time gets fed-up of artificial 

Breakthroughs, the lens shifts, and 

The obscured reality 

Revolves to clarity –

The lines fill up the glass 

To the point we ask ourselves

“Why is everything a sequel?”



Because we believed we became

And so fate is not so much a planned accident

But an unconscious decision 

To imitate what we expected

Or what was expected for us.