Circle Of Dead Children When Human Compost Stains All Earth And Repels The Messengers Of Love
I hope to be there when the eggs of skepticism hatch and
develop into superior bodies of free thought.
They hope to be there when the timbers split and bio-germ
death decorates the skies like a thousand devils winking.
Anchor our hands.
Recapture our minds.
Salvation's rent is due and cerebral bankruptcy has been
filed.
The potter's wheel has been re-invented and his products
will never die.
The butcher's blade has been whet and his products were
never alive.
So let the tree of previous knowledge fall and be the
first to vacate the hive.
