Dust flies from the rotation of an oscillating fan
Its pale fragments coat and clothe the semblance of man.

Wake up, broken dreams, bounce forward out of stasis, collectively dropping down to the focal point of races, all they see is shades of grey, a blurry bunch of victimless prey, spectrum free skin, to make all akin.

In the midst of all that spin, they packed fiberglass in the tin. Walked out last, a fetish for the past. Drooling blood, it’s a wretched flood. Life’s passing by, wrapped in a papist lie.

The winged are envious of a capability to fall; they haven’t gone high enough to pivot and stall.

Diluted folks talk in statured forms, learning off of intelligible norms. Baptizing a culture of youth, in the blood shed by imagined truth. Cultivating a guilty conscience, in those stuck with the deceit of providence.

His name is hollow and shrewd; in fact, it’s quite misconstrued. Supposed valleys jumped in leaps and bounds, factual evidence’s show only bodies left in heaps and mounds.

Where the broken lay, you may be sure He paved the way.
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"Clouds and darkness round about him: righteousness and judgment the habitation of his throne."