Wednesday, December 6, 2017

The Brave

There is no one holy there at the door just flickering lights going nowhere a bunch of airplanes that were stars that were explosions that are everything Now and Again they pretend to comment when I pray to a fallen monument
I don't know what to do; as they continue to worship the water; I sit here and I wonder if it's holy anymore.
Following galaxies into circulation those complex conspiracies who rule the nation; today we run No more broken promises a head full of fire; I raise my fists burn the flag for the ministry the pacifists are no longer passive to this.
She died to them on Sunday we became the hurricanes that took down the sky we were the crazies at the edge of the 21st century with a bedroom full of knives and a center through which we were out of order so nervous on borderlines
of a war that ended before
Lights alert with laser sharp idealism putting words into dysfunction like an earthquake ripping open the world's foundation I pray to fallen statues I don't know what to do; as they continue to worship the water; I sit here and I want it back I wonder if it's holy anymore.
They run against a black background a naked culture for the conditioning terrible ; ugly ; vulnerable within a soundless display disruptive and unstable; uprising apostatized and rhetorical machinations unified by key.
I drifted; spiraling and conspiring against the conspirators of the wiring imagining creation- as my body began morphing again.
I entered the shallow waters and took over the hologram and took over the hologram freeing the son of Sam.
He's been down there beaten chronic and damned; alone white and gray and gay weak or strong; re-writing their wrongs with forgotten songs to play there are the armies; the loyalties matriculated and loaded with righteous religiosity.
She breathes life through entropy in this phototropic embassy full of such negative spaces She fabricated; diagrams of his kind of reality; worshiping the whispers laying their forgotten bodies.
as he raised the dying sins from her miserable hands their wings so broken; were imaginary and my words so infinite and majestic now an impossible reality
What of it all now that you were in another black box simulation too unrealistic to recreate just wishing less of this schism what was the point of being here where was it that I was before prism
echoing some kind of reminder eternity to all wanted to be they keep following us, amazed
at all we are meanwhile tables were turning on us for we were the brave

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