Inanity

The victors are the villains of morality.
Serving none other than immortality.
While writing truce, beating clues to their inanity.
The hollow shell that cease to see a mortal draw  its inane boundaries of human shell.

This shell that we seek is in its own rhythm for a vital sign of regress.
A regress for one the sanity is questioned.
Asked rigorously. Questioned vigorously of its fulfillment.
Where an inane space is filled with nothing but the scope for imagination.

This space pushes ideas and guilt persuades limitations to movement.
And risks bare collateral damage while burst of tear scorch ashes off stone.
Quantitative measurements create strings and bare science creates possibilities.

A spark ignites flames while a pinch excites blames.
Citing synonymous colloquial conditions defining forms of limitations.
Stating from the birth of a being to its death and after.
Planned yet pre-planned with rituals.

He reaped thy sowed; death to being by nothing more than a mere stick on fire.
To soul by nothing than the flush of flood.
No faith to cling onto. Its clean as the mere sight of inanity.