Day creasing when the time shatters on the eight,
I watch the shadows of the normal file one by one.
Solemnly staring at the ones by the ones,
Understanding 11:11 never will be as lucky as seven.
These nights will be the death of me,
Never ceasing to bereave my dreams to prosper
But handling seams to unlock the truth in my heart
That a fresh start is all I wanted.
What’s it got to be to discard your discrimination
That keeps me up in the night in order to put to death
The culmination of your plight?
You and your ranks line up, writing these tickets and fines up
My pocket can’t muster change for my portion or my future wife’s cup.
What divine luck.
Calling yourself a slave to glory but became a slave to stories.
Prophets portion came from your abortions to mankind,
Unwilling to love and adore for the sake of your own mind,
But would rather wreak the torment that calls your heart home.
It’s already 12:00 and it needs to move out.
Shouting at the pangs of distress for the fangs to get out of my veins.
I’m being sucked dry of my efforts, and my attributes to provide,
Only wishing at this point to confide behind my eyes,
And sleep. And I can’t even do that.
Do you understand the depths of depravity? If it is so easily afforded,
Then I should be rich and pay off your thoughts buy burying them in a ditch.
I worked for someone like you for too long,
And for the death of me, my scars are remnants of the throngs
That stood before me, adorned and willing to slay but unwilling to die.
I still stand battlemarked and laden with grief,
And I never wanted any of that, except…sleep.
These streets, bloodless yet violent, scream for help.
Her killers, swift yet silent, pestering whelps.
Her people, wicked, destructive, never at peace.
Her powers, corrupt, repugnant, “purging” her streets.
Her churches, distant and pagan, burn where they stand.
Her children, cold and orphaned, stay enclosed in her hand.
Not one gets away, not a single escapes.
Her fake smile hides her city behind rusted gates.
It was as if the palms of their hands emitted light. Quickly opening and closing them to the music, pulsating, entrapped and ensnared to a streaming and never depleting embrace. The exhilaration didn’t dare change but provided consistent streams of qualitative and quantitative zen. There were their hands again. Beating like drums against an invisible wall, screaming for it to continue, enthralled to break down the Jericho in their hearts, willing for a new start and a tempest rose to a fever chill and sent them all into a sweat. And the light, a cosmic blanket of white staring insanely unprejudiced into the depths of their soul…all they wanted was for it to continue. It’s all that they could do to hold on with a bare knuckle grip swaying with the crest and troughs of their existence, riding the waves of an enigma straight to the scene of the break down. They rode the notes and melody down river, crashing themselves against crags and skulls. Frontal lobes complained of abuse in the form of electrical shocks but was amplified and energized by electrons, millions of catalysts to an overall energy that broke through a universal ceiling and they all were thankful. Thankful that those three seconds could never come back. That those three were full and a foreshadow of the next three, and three after that until they couldn’t count anymore and time didn’t matter. They realized that breath was in the form of waves, and not what they breathed out but rather what breathed into them. It was all they could do but pour ourselves out in order to receive certain waves to transpire to heights unknown. They lost themselves. Thankfully.