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It’s collective soul constipation.
This is when the deadbeats are resurrected to be beasts, bounding through time.
And my burdened bluebirds full of booze, (hopefully)
blues, (probably)
And poem and song;
This is the time for the starving beast of lyric
And the harvest
Of love
And life
And then of course
The reaping.
My sleep-lacking, insomnia angels with wings that seem too heavy to fly-
Here’s the time to build a home with bloodstained bricks from broken churches.
Finish the roof with waterworks.
Seal the deal with dismantled statues of stoic figures
Representing divine madness - reflecting a potential replacement for our disassociated fathers and maiden made mothers…
My brothers and sisters
I insist that this isn’t it.
We must’ve missed something amidst the distraction of smoke and pheromone mist.
Persist further.
For this is the time to search and find
What ever it is we’ve been searching for…
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