Tyranny

On a plane of existance
completely within my grasp
where pages turn not
where ink flows not
without my desire
A mark, I created
unique and perfect
within it's own imperfection
as there were so many others
much like it
yet none
quite like it
one whose replica
I could never recreate
and thus for me
a mar upon
a perfect white sheet
of my delusion
of perfect control
and the cxreator drowned
his creation
in the causes of it's birth
under layers of it's own
birthing ink
but,
the layers consisted of
more marks begotten
blending and fusing
into a dark blue pool
of birthing fluid
and my mind
the creators mind
concieved
a paradox of intention
and a breach of power
for although the mark i drowned
under a sea of marks
did it live on?
beneath a sea of it's bretheren
created to drown it
but camoflauging its existance
beneath therr own existance?