Factually fictitious

Myriad are the ways of creation,
And prickly, as ever, the almagation.

Ain’t it hard to spot a speck?
The self seems to be so perfect.

Over-populating theses
with over populated geniuses;
Never finding any common ground
to spin the circle round.

What’s the mantra modern?
Overlooked has been the sub-urban.

It all looks well on paper;
Defacing are for paupers!

I am tired but I am not bound.
Spiritualised but nothing’s sound.

The soul is created the same;
Our reluctance is all but a shame.