The truth is self renewing.
Sweating in mirroring keys.
Speaking of the world globe.
Round of checkerboards black and white.
So I play my lyre to dither through the ground,
to reach the sweetest grass.
When arrived, I jubilate.
I jubilate in bewildered fire with the most beautiful.
Moving as one in the pattern of braiding in the form of our terrific own.
Amid ponderously fluid vocalizing,
I foresee the unborn delivering.
The deliviring of legendary strong rhythmic groove of electric bass and drums.
Twenty five, eighty six.
Flying carpets, angel wings.
Howling wolfs, purified livers.
Every cell gathered.