The gold trimmed hedges of my youth proclaim,
\"I am a figment, both in self and in name\",
Existing further beyond tides and mantles.
Fervent are their paintings, splattered along my halls:
Brought forth to be damned by some righteously ill-summoned squall.
Simply another memory, that my pneuma can\'t seem to handle.
The slate-woven mountains of the present deem:
Not much, this world, for prosperity.
Larceny, treason, homicide for god\'s sake.
All the wailing peasants turning to a Hero to right their wrongs.
For the sake of knowing nothing, though,
They still chant that god\'s song.
The poignant hyacinths of my future presume,
Ferocious wealth or misfortune loom.
Dependant on my actions, reliant on the occasion,
One false pace,
And the story would close: To which no one is immune.
Rattled by the unknown, the course of a silent beck,
Faint hindrances begin to bloom.
Combating like salmon through the opposition,
Tip of the tongue, almost spoken.
What was it again, was it . .
Fission, or amalgamation?