The submission theorem

No place for the sinners.
At the edge of the world, but still,
through the division of our morality
we exist above waves of relativeness.
We lie to ourselves.
Swallowing smoke
like it was milk
from our mother's breasts.
Polluting the air with it,
observing it's disappearance.
Reminding us
the expiration of our own existence
and the arrogance of the mortal Gods.
We.
Doomed, unfulfilled ideas,
irrational and disturbed monsters.
We play devious games
with ourselves.
The experiment doesn't have an owner
and I don't have a mother tonight.
We are the children of randomness
we are suspicious thieves!
Stealing some pleasure
in every ejaculation.
Dying
beneath the absence of essence.
I need some pure essence.
An element,
that will condemn me
to a treat of continuously joy.
I need boring ideas
and boring people
and boring life,
so I can pretend
that I am actually alive!
Right now I just need you.
I am accelerating.
Running faster
as the drums are getting louder.
Heading,
to the distortion
heading
To the corruption.
Simulation of poems in my mouth
and my veins, toxicated, again
from the curse.
The curse that command me every night
to water with wine my burned lips.
Beasts tonight are chanting
the anthem of my decay.
I embrace the nothingness!