Madness or Precision

Each second ticking through,
Presence, was all it asked of us,
Beckoning us to follow a timer sound,
Awaken to an inevitable truth.
Riding a new high,
Waiting for a new sun,
Realizing a futility in reason and judgement, cage that last fleeting glimpse of glory,
Living, waiting for the end to come.
Engulf us, the flames, glazing, gold, a stove of knowledge.
It will burn us, its our salvation.