Maxwell Robarts
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The Shadowed Whispers Of A Mad Oracle
The hazy dynamo of price tags and corpsed land has forsaken our cherubim past, once true and wild, to a casual and fierce gulag. Spellbound in the turbulent fear of a barren wallet, our leaders have proved to be content with pitching our children into a breatheless darkness unknown to our kind. How desperate have we become? We watch while morose men without hope, peddle our own weary Mother’s blood on the beaten streets for a clumsy red cent. We watch while cutthroat pimps bargain our Mother’s womb to the dead hearted factories. We watch while the cheap and earless choke our Mother’s watery neck with their tired garbage. All of this for a heartsick comfort in a crucified land. Thus, here we stand, hypnotically entranced while guerrilla politicians wage a penny war with our sad and noble Mother.
By Maxwell Robarts4 years ago in Futurism