No clueless wannabe hang around
can ever find his way into the sun,
where I, bound by one sound,
waits for the last run
with money that may last for a days.

I am the apostasy of all dead aims,
of all things fallen due to a lost cause.
There will be a war of flames
fought for the sake of a silent applause,
a comment out of place.

Thus the final dare is a wave of coils
billowing through all wily expectation,
a teeming cross of wills that boil,
the speed of things in acceleration,
inclusive praise, the final phrase.