The once breathtaking scenario, The once blossoming field of flowers, The once enchanting view, Has been swallowed Ninety five percent by a flood, Of tears and beauty, Of fervency of heart and scribblings, The pen writes away at the unending flow, A tireless flow generated from point zero Of a lovely union, Drawn to the minuses on the number line, Cancelled out by plus one minus one, Dry up the overwhelming flood, Yet when vessel stands within heart-sight, The pen vomits infinitesimally, And volumes tied to this vessel fill almost to the brim Accounting for ninety five percent of entire fill. Understanding stands shielded as a whole number, But revelation is decimally yielded to minds that listen, Only to minus outspokenness from the algorithm. Inspire ninety five percent of flow, Only to ponder quietly, equal to a habitual silence, A caution that represents an improper fraction, Leading to a differentiation of hunger, Hugging tightly an integral most dreaded, Ninety five percent dreaded.