Deep stuff, mayne

Epileptic fractures of elongated lines
Project themselves as rupturing elements
Outside of the inner workings of my eardrums.
Just as seizures wrack my stretched out fingers
And the extraordinary touch of a beatles' vibration
sift through, it is sinking sand in my mortal hourglass.

A sense of senses unaware of another machine
Of another, Another falling, unyielding beast
Living, yet not breathing in the toxic, recycled air.
Between using a limited, plausibly infinite number of courses
To extract excavations of material, and then abusing it,
There is an upper layer, creating a vast poligamy of corporation.

Among the many, voices occasionally spit out touches
Of human emotion, couples with mechanical rations,
Explaining and comparing everything, everyone among their ranks.
And here is created a dismissive action, upon the attack
Recedes to conceal its identity, the scab left unbleeding
And above all the others lay the true bleeding betrayers.

A flashing creation of astronomical proportion
There is nothing to see, and my arms do not tingle
and I am alone among the millions.
Brightly lit, a facade hiding what holds realistic truth
A dark companion to a fictitious originator
Here, I gain my true knowledge.

And I realize some fact
May be recorded under false pretense
But above all else, there is residing
and creating a finally controlled system
I know who is here. And it is myself.
Alone is alone. Myself is the whole.