Aspire Crossfire

An advocate of absurdity… The devotee of nonsense sits; his work is done.
When all the signs lead beyond borders. With all those transfixed on win. How pleased they seemed to be only putty in jester hands. The egg-on and false serenade of loss, sweet sorrow of boring lit and history. The advocate of fireworks sits. Yes, poised to watch the parties flash/expire in cheap spectacle… never to be remembered.
The advocate of such aforementioned nonsense learned his trade collecting mainsprings of time forgot. Watches of those Pharisees of one man empires content on greed and fairytale. To be martyrs of nothing but time.
The mainsprings are infinite, he will tell you, popping and (in true light; definition) springing randomly from nothingness. A void of empty space refilling itself with the unknown. How bitter are they, nay, retarded when devoid of ticks and tocks. How fitting to know when time is done, yet, I still stay unsatisfied in my knowledge of knowing.
Where do they go? The advocate ponders still. How funny still is nothing but. How one must be still in time; still moving, compelled, same as I, to provoke war for my own amusement.