Drop seeds on a parched tongue
and see lips part to kiss parchment.
Excitement only grows it's own mold.
I hold seven stolen scrolls bound with
rope and smoke the ancient text
like brimstone.
Heaven is all alone now,
a cold home only known to those
who sold souls for improper profits.
Misfits missed the lost tips;
tripping over old prophets that
listed the cost of their options.
The stars started to construct an arc
based on instructions from the dark arts.
Mark the location to embark.
No remark came when our sparks
separated the sacred incarnated name
of God; charting pentagram hearts.
Futuristic isn't it?
When humanastic fulfillments insist
we're just dust and ashes.
The past is yet to come.
I've spit blood into the sands of time,
breathing whirlwinds from my lungs.
Well, what can we make of mud.
The ocean spoke as I rubbed shells together,
telling me the sea smells like revelation.
Ripe with weeds, cracked rocks
and dead reefs reeking of society.
Feed on your starved sense of passion.
This vast abyss is dense with inaction.
Count the abacus backwards
so square heads won't roll.
We've flattened the earth while Atlas
consoled the whole cosmos
to prepare for global geometrical control.