The Cycle

Vacant echoes allow time for thought
While thoughts ensue creation
Within the confines of our minds
It is imagination that sees no borders
A replication of our subconscious and conscious 
Entwined together upon a canvas
What is left of us when we are gone
Is left to be interpreted by what is next
A viscous cycle of an attempt to define
Basted in preconceived ideas of what ought to be
When all of this has merely tainted what could have been