Minted on Aug 21, 2021
Created by


chronologically, the knowledge of my ology is studied in the hall,
students bustling in classrooms of my stupidity and gracefulness in fall.
maybe there's hope in knowing nothing more than only what you're taught.
maybe there's hope in knowing nothing.
wisdom and mysticism is nothing until it's taught,
and missed by the simple schism in his quibbling of knots, is his love for rock bottom, the pit is pillowing to his thoughts. he's scribbling the rhythm from his pen to be forgot.
feed the flame into his fire fueled by dire hope and loss.
the pit that he inquired is never ending in its gross, mostly a portal for the ghosts.
he's alone now sitting at its wake, its gat belittling his gaze.
"how deep does it go?" he wonders, studying his death.
"there's only one way to know," he mutters, jumping to his death.