Wearisome feet tread onward from the innate journey,
As muscle, bone, and viscera are transformed by inner will,
Through will's realization of stellar connections,
As abstract calculations manifest.
All possibilities and outcomes of all journeys race by,
While the will screams for more and yet is unsatisfied,
Projecting energy to race even further,
Even to ruin.
Oblivion becomes no mere entity,
As I disappear, and the finger looks within to gain knowledge of the hand.
The Throne in The Void is empty, for Oblivion is no single thing,
No rotting emperor over disintegrating lands.
Will alone, ever-exceeding will, propelling eternal growth through a desire,
For triumph over itself, for nothing else is.
Birth and decay mere cycles to fuel the ever stronger beating pulse,
All lives and dies within.
Among the racing concepts, severed lines emerge,
Forming a forest of emptiness and visions of grandeur unrealized.
Severed by Oblivion, dead arms and legs of the infinite-limbed reality,
Useless attached, rotting severed.
Revelry in wisdom-brought insanity, bloodlust of a rage and joy unknown,
Sorrow has no place here, nor mercy, for rotting and dead limbs generate insects.
Through flesh piles, all indecision and burden is released, while the gaze turns once more,
To the infinite stream of journeys, with pits, mountains, and oceans,
Ready for conquest, for Oblivion's war is truth and growth.

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