Mass production. Fearless waste. We’re raised on the backwards “bigger is better”. Never to be stone-written. Parading a puny face in this boorish place. The difference has been set. The changes have been met. The gears grind. Not a soul can lift the stains made. One foot behind the other, double dipped prints. To not be the forgotten plan. Light the fire, dig the ditch. Terminated chances don’t lead a solid hand. Disembody the requiem. Validate the healer. No repeats. The clouded, desolate, interacting Mother Being reading into every position. Lock and load, unload and change. Feel the dirt beneath the feet of everything, in any case. This “balance of nature” does not exist. festering in rhythmic loot. constant reminders of lost purity and dramatic desires never said aloud. Play by play, set by set. Invisoned crystals mark the wanted war. Nothing more than full of doubt, a cage rattling on forgotten sand. We’ll interrogate the death of the sun. The safety pin dropped now, would be enough for speed. The object of paragon in an oblivion due to blind hysteria. And the tiny room that steals air away, laughs in the face of the soul lying on the edge. Masked leveled beings diminishing unaware of fate..crippled at the thought of wings.
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