The Hands that built us

 

 

Youth's chaotic.

 

It's its frenzies,

 

never wonders, nor it ceases.

 

 

The impairments,

of impervious gallops.

 

 

Never minding.

 

The stigma in its.

Illicitness.

 

 

Unto the screen's sheen.

 

The apostle's green signature.  

 

 

It's time to crucible

 

this thesis:

 

A sneeze that sizzles

the exhumed silence

from the scene.

 

 

That bleeds it.

All lights around us.

And no limits in between.

 

 

Their secrets...

The city's bane

 

abstracts us;

engulf us to temptation.

 

 

And deceit nets.

 

 

The Night prowls the growl

 

beneath the

 

 

upset chemicals we breathe in.

 

 

It's time to work out

 

new samples to image

 

same creations.

 

 

Polish stone 'till the shine blind us.

 

 Eclipsing no chance to strike blind.

 

The bling of pastimes made to hectic

 

ministrations of the arcane or the norm.

 

 

Missed inputs in translation,

 

burning holes until retinas

 

flourish pound and flower

 

instead of rotten flour...

 

 

Oh Brethren,

if not for voids, for voices,

 

grab your best coins

 

and choose the flounder.

 

 

Black vests are coming.

 

And the beasts are sure to escort them.

Prepare for battle, but keep the short pen.

 

On hand, better grasped.

It's time to shine the boots,

 

and let it drop theirs.

 

 

Sculpt the true meanings of the runes...

 

Make sense of them at some weight.

 

 

 

Oh Sons,

 

tell your tall tales.

 

 

To your youngest and your eldest.

 

Times for modesty, destroy our.

 

 

Sense of property of respect.

 

 

If the bed burns lightly,

 

but nor the settlement.

 

 

Let it ash until it brightens,

 

the ripen fitments, come ashore.

 

 

Stinks of uncertainty.

 

And purple's blood.

 

 

 The snake grabs hold the crosshair.

The tallest chair strives not the fall.

But the fallen off the globe...

 

Oh Soldiers.

Their promises awoken.

No sentiment behind,

not a vital sign alive.

A palpitation sure arises.

And not for glory memorizes.

All vanities in pain,

all glories after battle.

Pulverized emotions.

No notions to confound them.

Corruption's gaze attracts them.

The constant fear incline their

sense of shame.

Of piety in wartime...

A warranty propose to a

nation made from blunder

and few spotlights.

Crisscrossed seems

 

entitled.

 

 

A plea to all of you that try hard:

 

 

 

Undermine and just try.

 

 

 Dark times, forth becoming,

are The Timeline.

Better bets the chance

to strike again

 

before Midnight.