Man is the corruptor of the Ideal.
Creating like a god
In the purity of his mind.
Enlightenment does rise
From the darkened mists of the abyss,
An ascending thought
Out of the deep subconscious,
That void of innocence.
That abstract is so perfect.
No shape to judge,
So free and fluid.
But man cannot see
Any piece of Eternity
Thus inducing man’s frailest desires.
He is driven to fashion
Some crude model,
A pale representation,
A limited creation
By which to judge,
To know,
To give Life,
The greatest curse.
Now enslaved and static,
The Ideal has gone still.
It is the child of the father,
The abortion of the ethereal.

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