Transmit A Que-Ped

Little life in the stolen blood, chaotic proposal bent in open arms,
Chains of little guns, windows creased in the tinny cranium core,
I've opened dark leaves and spat out substance, these are rhetoric,
We are symbolic, allowing the clocks to lament, to dismay, waiting.

Trading scene, spaces, places unclean, and my own brand of justice,
Splitting the feathers of the last bird, the last fiery phoenix of yesteryear,
Absconding the trespass, the open wound, a meal of puss and scorn,

Oxygen, spaced with the echoes of brief silence,
I bleed your colours, I burn your flags, I wear the gloves of your maker.
N ever Be long, In travenous, skin plastered with apparatus. 

You can breathe in your bubble, but can you taste the world?

The End

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