There is a beat now vibrating
Heard through a mass of minds
Irrefutably attempting
To block out it's persuasiveness.

It is an incestuous beat
With a common theme
Seemingly ill-fated to repeat itself
Mating upon itself
To produce it's very replica
With but a slight chronological shift

It is a limited voice
Produced by limited creators
Ignorant of their own demise
The fate of this concierge
Amounts to an infinite fast
From original tone

As more gather to participate
More relieve themselves
Of the anguish of faked appreciation
Allowing the incompetent
To outnumber
Those conscious of reality