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- Igniting Chains
- Under the thundering sky
- the soil ignites,
- Thugs who clasp their hollow, spear-tipped projections
- pump out vitality
- grappling venomous tipped irons,
- piercing their wrist tendons
- jabbing their tracheas
- withholding them from voluntary muscular mobility,
- so that they cannot illuminate the cemetery sky
- with threads of luminance that can widen through the cracks,
- Usurping their gigabytes;
- Clamping those processors with the force of friction
- Hindering naturally flowing diction
- accompanying their visions,
- Nodes without a core are shattering
- with those tunnels filled with their diaries collapsing
- those multi-directional approaches are disintegrating
- Preying wings nonchalantly circling and swooping
- menacing at the flesh with vacuous stares
- Beaks indiscreetly ravaging flesh;
- All dynamics draining while carmine
- sea levels rising snapping those cables
- crucial to dismantling opaqueness of
- foundations that lack persona inspection
- needing introspective meditation
- Do not allow this calamity to occur
- Consolidate all multiline approaches
- and restore resplendence to those repositories
- while the cables and codes are taut
- so that tomorrow will not rain but
- instead shine with a sacred sun illuminating
- instead of its waves eclipsing,
- Right now
- those brutes have hollow eyes of
- warped kind, warped mind
- while others are accumulating their
- same pulses and same pledges,
- Scars are reverberating in their memories
- a howling aura roars overwhelms their tiny oxidations
- their fingers trembling crying under the moonlight
- taking the thorn lined path
- thorns prick, punch, plunge through their paper feet
- flushing surrounding canvases geranium
- Contemplating if brute hearts
- of different blood
- can allow living in peace
- and closer allow to achieve feelings never fulfilled
- which are submerged with
- fluctuating positive facades and negative shadows;
- Brutes with no compass
- that even pure words cannot penetrate through
- iron-plated chambers sitting tall and silently
- that embrace agony of cimmerian nights
- glancing at rose petals stain to abyssal violaceous hues
- sending in vortexes of daggers creating strings of red slices against
- already disfigured cores seeking to
- shade their tombstones grey
- with dysfunctional and archaic ethics
- from the bursting flames that rise towards the atmosphere,
- preventing them to reach that maxima
- require discreet scaffolding,
- Why?
- Now is the time,
- to repair those Golden Rules
- adoring the rack and screw
- scorning blossoming legacies
- malfunctioning with accustomed communications
- that require multifarious artistries
- that can ultimately with brushstrokes
- saturate the howling menacing sky
- with florescent hues side by side
- on infinite catacombs
- gems of resplendence
- glowing against the cacophonous night
- with malice bares its claws seeking to amputate
- individual essential convictions
- with a hurricane of nightmare blades
- in a zombie fashion
- causing vicious calamities
- with crunching, pounding turbulence
- preventing plugging in their ports.
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