Flayed… Splayed…
Grimacing blades of lamentable situations…
The irony is ironclad.
Vocalize… Immobilize…
No prize worthy of our esteem,
we dream of a cold valley
furnished with bold furrows.
Rifts in the foreground shimmer like snow.
We knew better than to grow
in such pitiful soil.
We knew better than to toil in obscurity..
For this, purity came on
like a cudgel to budge us
from our twofold haze.
We entered as strays
and left as prophets,
and in our wake, profit margins flourished.
The beat shuffles on…
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 