To be sought, is to be reflected.
To be found, is to be perfected.

To have a reflection,
A never-ending reason,
And a naive perfection,
Is to be loved by devastation.

Contortion, a seemless arson,
Burns the brightest of passions.

I am sought, and not found;
For I am trapped in a contraption,
In an endless imagination,
That is beyond my comprehension.

I must remember,
Salvation goes to those who endeavor.

I may be lost, but not forever.
I can be found in a seemless crowd;
Or am I being devoured,
By a devilish doubt?