Is not the son of none.
It is so bright that it clears the route,
In a way vivid enough for the foot,
As the blockage couldn’t overshadow the sun's brightness,
So to say that the entire scheme is just madness.
So what about the darkness in counting,
The one that is a metaphor for comparing,
The catalogue that serves as catharsis,
It is all about domination in analysis.
As the vigintillion shadows reflect,
That kind of ambiguity deflects,
It is not a struggle,
Where search marks up Google.
For the protagonist is the same,
As the antagonist in fame,
Where the father is the everlasting light,
And the mother is the over-darken darkness in sight.
So what is proper?
It is also improper,
Only the lens shown,
And view accepted to the bone,
Fathered in light,
Mothered in total darkness in sight,
The son of a vigintillion suns,
Is not the son of none.