Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

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Aloud, the voices spoke,
Trembling fear into my spine.
In the morning, I awoke.
No longer allowed to shine.

In the days before my breath,
I would weep without voice.
And upon my surly death,
I'm in a fevered daze of choice.

What I hear cannot be braved,
The here and now will fog,
Leaving behind the misbehaved
To squeal and whine like hogs.

I cut the silver cord away,
To float beyond the clouds and sun.
Without a sanctioned mind to pray,
I strike a chord, the prey is done.

Ours is the moment of plagues,
Black disease to burn the hours
And destroy the overly vague.
We return home, stripped of powers.

I write with sore fingers and trembling hands,
Determined to right the stingy wrong.
Without wings, I cannot soar, but demand
The ability to continue to sing my song.

9-2-10


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