Of Withered Skin

Up in the clouds,
That’s where the pavement lies,
No altitude,
Can save this state of mind,

Blowing away,
The antidote,

Throwing away,
Our final hope

Upon its surface,
In blood we soaked,

Our path etched out in muddied thought,
How embarrassing we all would look,
If the stars presented different ones,
To contradict,
Tell us we’re wrong

The prism stained the light,
The fog rolled in,
The babbled gurgled cries,
Of withered skin,
The flowers have run dry,
Salt preserves the sin,
The locust horde of pride,
Feeds ego,
Paper thin

Spread across the oceans,
A fire of human hands,
In bedded in the ozone,
A map of failed advance

The tribal cries,
A mist the dance,
A temptress made of clay,

Then up the hill,
Towards the fog,
Cogged wheels,
replace the hay,

Somewhere in the process,
Theory led away,
Higher stations,
Thought led man astray


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