The Invention

Feeling my way through the dark interpasses of my soul and I wonder

With destitute solemnity if this life can entreat me that which to other

Despicable wretches it has so freely and lavishly endowed;

The unfairness of it all lies in the fact that I reign superior in the crowd

Of dim-witted rambling fools whose minds only venture beyond

The ordinary if they ingest odious amounts of drugs; the pond

Of my peers, so pathetic and raggedly distraught

'Twould be miraculous if their burnt brains could produce a thought

That may actually transcend the pointless drama within

And it is here, upon these masses, we aim to control with the invention of sin.