failure is my body contour on a rorschach. the image repeats itself. it has been seen in tidal waves that decimate developing countries, and tear children from the arms of their families sweeping them out to sea. in a lullaby of crashing waves, they are smothered in coves of rock. noticed in the pieces of skull detailing the brain melted in the back of an office chair, where political dynasties have engraved their future.

the crops is scorched to a shriveled stub, like the pruned skeletons of mummified legacies. the desire of legend results in myth, and mythical desires are the concoctions of vacant minds alluding to a greater existence. one need only venture into a cemetery, and single out an unfortunate site to disturb it’s contents to find the evidence of life’s dreary truth.

i would love to live by a phrase; a single caption indexing a glorious chronicle on our bleak time line. but there is time for rebuttal, and each page note categorically descends to the term of origin. our focal point.