Dah'rak, The Second
and had become the language of reason, everything so loud, the keys beneath the wrong fingers, the words in the wrong place, the rain on the wrong blades of grass,
had for ages seen the limelight, the time where brazen storm with evening vanished into the paranoia of well-laid plans, interior without inferior manied storms in first wave over minds of sullen caves where the brave were here to save, where the next were meant to look,
for the time this seem prophetic and was nearly not it's ones and zeroes, like sophist heroes or assassins with muddy feet, all to say what had been promised like the start of every message for sale,
the most of many which, the scorn of others stitch, and the likes of matters circumspect the laggard with the mile, so haggard with the smile, replacing gift with prosecution as if stain and turned to style,
most for asking had to ask them, both were trivial insane, yet the heart of butcher's mercy was the start was not the game, it seems, and by much the very circumstance is tethered to a breeze,
for quit come near with start this gives, at best the sort of ending naked in the rain complaining about the temperature being one and one half degrees wholly unbearable, like the sins gone incomparable, ever incomplete,
quit of some, writ of none, parser barren of the sun, watchers taken, shakers shaken, and the rivers cried and won, at least match the gussied catch with waves like that would make eyed all the flitted crossing snake eyed,
of it tiresome glow shining stars across the bow, pull the string and cross the ocean of the mind, and yet it seems that many mercies have gruesome seas, and by their human sacrifices, do we all carry this blood,
it became dark and rigid warfare in the sands inside the stone, bones of bathing made of weapons others teeth were meant to hone, recorded nonsense as if kindred, should they bear that cross alone,
became the sleet many bricks against my skin, endless waters sinking a rebuilt fortress, floating in the stars itself, impertinent endless irrevocable need for rhyming like the flag of skull and bone, were the wind of sons and daughters,
the darkness doesn't blow, just as a cloud in the night it rests on stars, replanting eyes at night to count the days, a storm bending the newest blade of grass, crassly dust stares dawn and the light bends the same,
darkness at the base of the empty throne, lightless mist spilling into the walls of colors unseen, but more unimaginable by mortal heels, a castle and ship whose doctrine roth spoken true, decreed of of suns and waters,
at the seems the honest claim of exchange, surfeit a word, afeite absurd, eschew procured, written textures read of leisures where the ground is warm and sewn, and the wars were blood and bone, tragedy of home unknown,
the latent pasture of this mastery as escape from time and atrophy were those genes of human hatchery that give dementia its final crown, but the passing of the weeds by nest is rare, latter edits more profound,
latent of the wicker and the light around the moon, and as we look around the room, fewer eyes would soon subsume, temper tantrum motus random apparatus vile contraption twisting capture into blatant, hardly, truth,
of this we knew of one, one of many like a scarecrow, but if it is shadow that can't be caught, make this nonsense into parcel and then gag them on the spot, which the rest of us won't need it unless all of us are caught,
this was peace and that was past like the smoke among the grass, now it's daylight and the clouds pull rows and sheets across the surface of the droves, currency in positivism, and skills sets scores,
was there something in translation, spending days to learn the order of subject, and object, and verb, and the code for secret words, all to have made peace with lazy learners as the larger tribe attacks,
there was indeed water between the reeds for the blood to fetid sour all the ragged wooden power, as the earth would sift thru light and dark as has the earth before it, the seed would reclaim the forest, unless the dust had covered frost,
was the world to shake it would split in two, if you had asked an ant or an ox, but the farmer can see downhill like the child can see a thrill, motive brandy or tequila turning pages shapes the world,
the one yelling at books has burned them in dreams, screaming about bloodshed between the seams of society and patiently and quietly and in some avalanche effect now so riot-ly, had cut themselves bleeding,
one who lost their voice screaming, scorned themselves burning, torn themselves turning, be search Achilles surfing off Chile, did not swim to shore to bury his head in the sand,
who had made, valleys haunt my vision for the trenches of oceans listening where old moons from distant systems are burned and buried and their foreign soil raise creature, like false prophets do,
had any made it to ache from toning like this, the way rest makes tense, and direction relax, the many joined in making better forgot to put their own to task, surely three or more when one is less,
any time to tip would be valuable, no more than others in the quiet riot, or giving some such sort, when we die the worms retort and the fish curse gods of tide and spears, and fishers block the light from the surface,
time was given, and gratuity was not, and these unordained inordinate rigid colorblind kleptophiles keep punching at the skies, oh you're disparate disheveled not without so many lies, and hands out with fewer tries,
was what who, where how many gave their all, so that none giving none was the quantity of sum, and the total of parts wasting on assembly lines that don't exist, for the storm would so persist deep into thunder,
what is behind the typhoon is the water, not the ground, but the sound of the atmosphere spiraling from god in your language's control, pulling cold from space, condensate rain, and swelling oceans just the same,
is this miracle on elm street not the surface or the fire, which the songs of better winds bring truth to our insane, where we make our bones to claws to climb the darkness, and use our skulls to dig,
this alarm began about them with the notion of extremes, then the fires started smolder where the lava was a stream, then where forest roots the waters flaming river at its edge, throne alone with fog of darkness pours from darkness edge, like the cliffs becoming blood fall in the spirit of the night, dawn will follow every fight
and had become the language of reason, everything so loud, the keys beneath the wrong fingers, the words in the wrong place, the rain on the wrong blades of grass,
had for ages seen the limelight, the time where brazen storm with evening vanished into the paranoia of well-laid plans, interior without inferior manied storms in first wave over minds of sullen caves where the brave were here to save, where the next were meant to look,
for the time this seem prophetic and was nearly not it's ones and zeroes, like sophist heroes or assassins with muddy feet, all to say what had been promised like the start of every message for sale,
the most of many which, the scorn of others stitch, and the likes of matters circumspect the laggard with the mile, so haggard with the smile, replacing gift with prosecution as if stain and turned to style,
most for asking had to ask them, both were trivial insane, yet the heart of butcher's mercy was the start was not the game, it seems, and by much the very circumstance is tethered to a breeze,
for quit come near with start this gives, at best the sort of ending naked in the rain complaining about the temperature being one and one half degrees wholly unbearable, like the sins gone incomparable, ever incomplete,
quit of some, writ of none, parser barren of the sun, watchers taken, shakers shaken, and the rivers cried and won, at least match the gussied catch with waves like that would make eyed all the flitted crossing snake eyed,
of it tiresome glow shining stars across the bow, pull the string and cross the ocean of the mind, and yet it seems that many mercies have gruesome seas, and by their human sacrifices, do we all carry this blood,
it became dark and rigid warfare in the sands inside the stone, bones of bathing made of weapons others teeth were meant to hone, recorded nonsense as if kindred, should they bear that cross alone,
became the sleet many bricks against my skin, endless waters sinking a rebuilt fortress, floating in the stars itself, impertinent endless irrevocable need for rhyming like the flag of skull and bone, were the wind of sons and daughters,
the darkness doesn't blow, just as a cloud in the night it rests on stars, replanting eyes at night to count the days, a storm bending the newest blade of grass, crassly dust stares dawn and the light bends the same,
darkness at the base of the empty throne, lightless mist spilling into the walls of colors unseen, but more unimaginable by mortal heels, a castle and ship whose doctrine roth spoken true, decreed of of suns and waters,
at the seems the honest claim of exchange, surfeit a word, afeite absurd, eschew procured, written textures read of leisures where the ground is warm and sewn, and the wars were blood and bone, tragedy of home unknown,
the latent pasture of this mastery as escape from time and atrophy were those genes of human hatchery that give dementia its final crown, but the passing of the weeds by nest is rare, latter edits more profound,
latent of the wicker and the light around the moon, and as we look around the room, fewer eyes would soon subsume, temper tantrum motus random apparatus vile contraption twisting capture into blatant, hardly, truth,
of this we knew of one, one of many like a scarecrow, but if it is shadow that can't be caught, make this nonsense into parcel and then gag them on the spot, which the rest of us won't need it unless all of us are caught,
this was peace and that was past like the smoke among the grass, now it's daylight and the clouds pull rows and sheets across the surface of the droves, currency in positivism, and skills sets scores,
was there something in translation, spending days to learn the order of subject, and object, and verb, and the code for secret words, all to have made peace with lazy learners as the larger tribe attacks,
there was indeed water between the reeds for the blood to fetid sour all the ragged wooden power, as the earth would sift thru light and dark as has the earth before it, the seed would reclaim the forest, unless the dust had covered frost,
was the world to shake it would split in two, if you had asked an ant or an ox, but the farmer can see downhill like the child can see a thrill, motive brandy or tequila turning pages shapes the world,
the one yelling at books has burned them in dreams, screaming about bloodshed between the seams of society and patiently and quietly and in some avalanche effect now so riot-ly, had cut themselves bleeding,
one who lost their voice screaming, scorned themselves burning, torn themselves turning, be search Achilles surfing off Chile, did not swim to shore to bury his head in the sand,
who had made, valleys haunt my vision for the trenches of oceans listening where old moons from distant systems are burned and buried and their foreign soil raise creature, like false prophets do,
had any made it to ache from toning like this, the way rest makes tense, and direction relax, the many joined in making better forgot to put their own to task, surely three or more when one is less,
any time to tip would be valuable, no more than others in the quiet riot, or giving some such sort, when we die the worms retort and the fish curse gods of tide and spears, and fishers block the light from the surface,
time was given, and gratuity was not, and these unordained inordinate rigid colorblind kleptophiles keep punching at the skies, oh you're disparate disheveled not without so many lies, and hands out with fewer tries,
was what who, where how many gave their all, so that none giving none was the quantity of sum, and the total of parts wasting on assembly lines that don't exist, for the storm would so persist deep into thunder,
what is behind the typhoon is the water, not the ground, but the sound of the atmosphere spiraling from god in your language's control, pulling cold from space, condensate rain, and swelling oceans just the same,
is this miracle on elm street not the surface or the fire, which the songs of better winds bring truth to our insane, where we make our bones to claws to climb the darkness, and use our skulls to dig,
this alarm began about them with the notion of extremes, then the fires started smolder where the lava was a stream, then where forest roots the waters flaming river at its edge, throne alone with fog of darkness pours from darkness edge, like the cliffs becoming blood fall in the spirit of the night, dawn will follow every fight