Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail / The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder / That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze / Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder / Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind / Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind / And the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time / And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

It is what it is
archive (nsfw)
yours truly

(via tetris)

Notes
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Running on The Default Network
by Boyce