To juxtapose the tons of signs
My arm had made on purest papers
With any sense that has been put
In waters of my purple prose

The underbred bronze horse has seen
The horrors of the local clutter
A mess of color, wires unused
Have grown, mutated, matter fused

The waveforms mark the locus point
From one directions ‘been induced
And echoed all the rights and wrongs
When you’re authentic and I’m false

Therefore, all answers have been known
Through your reactions. Contents torn