They’re all bigger than their thoughts,
Always taller than their dreams,
Forever bloodier than their clots,
Marching like ants of grand machines.

As men pass through diamond doors,
Put in landscape walls of whitewashed glaze,
Bedecked with pinnacle ideas and words,
Sprayed to fill voids too wide, too burnt,
They lose their soul to their wants of superior,
Be never inferior, but the center of all creation.

Because they erect their lives, mark the trees,
Shoot them and stuff them, like they own these,
Yet think of scriptures and spells that better them,
Purify their evils, cleanse their demonic sins,
And think they understand the absolute instigation,
That ‘we are here with one, an actual intimation’.

Thus planks of ships become our power to rebuke,
As we push down those who seek to wreck fortunes,
Or the gallows, the chambers and the iron needles,
Crown our own gods to rule our own judgment days.

 

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