Lazaretto
Who dat is?
Chosen from among us, a chosen one to come up. Destiny enthralled with what is happening amongst them. No longer a pariah, or a sullen and bereft messiah. The social Al-Qaeda who longs to murder the vagina.
Systematic polar fires framed by scientific inversion trials. While the jury is all smiles, handing down the guilty verdict of their lucrative guile. Sentenced to burn on a funeral pyre, tossed out like last week's milk, expired. For your due has come to fruition, and it's time to retire. Permanently.
Squandering the liars, who seek out silly Mormon choirs. Gilded lilies trampled by tires, which traverse the scenic wilderness. Overcome by briars so thick that they are reminiscent of the Tolkien shires. But no hobbits here of which to inquire, for they have all gone to Gondor.
But have you tried the rhubarb pie? For we picked them fresh this morning. It's refreshing and absorbed through the lining of our stomachs. And I will keep hiking this wilderness as I trudge through these briars, and suffer through the putrid smell of bodies burning until I reach the summit.
A Kingdom bereft, as a destiny hangs from the edge of a cliff's face. The smell of mommy's milk in the morning, as we gently embrace her touch. New life imparting measures that infuse our beings, and course through our bodies and nourish our seeing. But we have relinquished the volatile agreements which we have been dreaming, and through our pores seething. A debaucherous plan viewed through a matrix of incessant scheming.
And all of our souls are beaming, some composed of dark, and others of light matter. A new and regenerate creation, while others are torn and tattered. And the dreams in your head have not translated into shiny buildings, or cogs in the marketplace, or pin-wheels spinning. No, they have been trapped in your subconscious, and your brain to body connection contains too many flawed riffs. And we could remove the amygdala from your cranium, and splatter it all over the ground, and scrutinize all the secrets which have empowered your reservations. And "splattered" is the sound your life makes when butted up against the impossibility of your stubbornness.
And dying next to an empty Pepsi bottle with sycophantic misogynists. You have been left wanting and unwilling to level-up your cerebral cortex. Your neuronal synapses have all but slowed to a halt, retreating from your cowardly remorse and passivity. Like the death-march of a dark star, surrendering its life, one shimmer at-a-time, a faded blip in the galaxy, which burned out way-too-soon. And there's nothing left to see now, for your vision has retarded, pitch-dark in the black hole of the recently departed.
Systematic polar fires framed by scientific inversion trials. While the jury is all smiles, handing down the guilty verdict of their lucrative guile. Sentenced to burn on a funeral pyre, tossed out like last week's milk, expired. For your due has come to fruition, and it's time to retire. Permanently.
Squandering the liars, who seek out silly Mormon choirs. Gilded lilies trampled by tires, which traverse the scenic wilderness. Overcome by briars so thick that they are reminiscent of the Tolkien shires. But no hobbits here of which to inquire, for they have all gone to Gondor.
But have you tried the rhubarb pie? For we picked them fresh this morning. It's refreshing and absorbed through the lining of our stomachs. And I will keep hiking this wilderness as I trudge through these briars, and suffer through the putrid smell of bodies burning until I reach the summit.
A Kingdom bereft, as a destiny hangs from the edge of a cliff's face. The smell of mommy's milk in the morning, as we gently embrace her touch. New life imparting measures that infuse our beings, and course through our bodies and nourish our seeing. But we have relinquished the volatile agreements which we have been dreaming, and through our pores seething. A debaucherous plan viewed through a matrix of incessant scheming.
And all of our souls are beaming, some composed of dark, and others of light matter. A new and regenerate creation, while others are torn and tattered. And the dreams in your head have not translated into shiny buildings, or cogs in the marketplace, or pin-wheels spinning. No, they have been trapped in your subconscious, and your brain to body connection contains too many flawed riffs. And we could remove the amygdala from your cranium, and splatter it all over the ground, and scrutinize all the secrets which have empowered your reservations. And "splattered" is the sound your life makes when butted up against the impossibility of your stubbornness.
And dying next to an empty Pepsi bottle with sycophantic misogynists. You have been left wanting and unwilling to level-up your cerebral cortex. Your neuronal synapses have all but slowed to a halt, retreating from your cowardly remorse and passivity. Like the death-march of a dark star, surrendering its life, one shimmer at-a-time, a faded blip in the galaxy, which burned out way-too-soon. And there's nothing left to see now, for your vision has retarded, pitch-dark in the black hole of the recently departed.
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Who dat is?
Who dat is?
