It is the consciousness of the people that drives politicians mad. It is the lusterous voice that bleeds the scournful dessert, and makes man's heart weep when he walks down destitute roads. I am not the mother of the earthly grace. For I am the magnitude that shouts out to the masses of broken sheathes. This is a song in the tree tops that echoes throughout my brass body; yet, I cannot follow you into whispering moons. The more the raging thunder carves out my essence, the longer it shall take me to find you, my driver of forbidden dreams. Listen closely, to your hungry towers whose seduction unfolds in a great many layers of slippery tongues; the music that speaks to my rubber soul, and detracts ferocious beams of light that feeds the ravaged sun, so lovingly.
Trepid waters, be still when the purple rain cradles me inside her spiteful body. For I shall not be devoured by your driven flames. Only handwashed stone can cleanse this foul that continues to burn your lungs. I shall use barren fields to suck out poisonous breaths from flood gates that drown my ears with their cryogenic shield. If you pierce my bosom with your tyrant sword, then let the matters of your creed be resolved by the wise of my thunder. However, it will not be I who shall be lead down screaming roads filled with hot coals. For it shall be you that falters down the seething ladder into hell.
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