I am sick
Sick of them showing up in white blouses
White slacks,
And their pale Dutch skin
Making the world that we are a part of
Look like the fourth circle
It is what it is
It’ll be what it’ll be
I have seen the canals first-hand
In that land beneath the sea
At it’s core it is brilliant
beyond robotic and the same
the organic breathing life
that takes away our mundane
across the six dimensions
this schizophrenic town
burns as a cauldron on the hearts of everyone
and every dream
we are the exploding volcano
we are the breathing ire
in this dragon city
that stands burning at the pyre
lily pads and mushrooms
brown bricks in the rain
the hookers walk in daylight
the macabre becomes plain
art becomes the royal business
of the queens domain
enthroned on the kingdom of fungi
textiles of our fleeting woven world
It is what it is
It’ll be what it’ll be
I have seen the canals first-hand
In that land beneath the sea
With the stale headlights that stare
The wyrm runs on forever
into the forgotten life that rots
the tangled dance of the commercially clever
the lives fall in ashes
skies that never rain
the frame burst into wildfires
and the world becomes the same
we are the exploding volcano
we are the breathing ire
in this dragon city
that stands burning at the pyre
I am sick, sick of their cheap words
Posing as if they had ever struggled
tormented souls falling as trash
on golden roads where dreams have crawled
to die.
It’ll be what it’ll be
As we are the breathing ire
In that land beneath the sea
that stands burning at the pyre
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