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The Whispers of a Dead ManThe soft whispers of a dead man's song,
Slipping through my fingers,
Tumbling silently to the ground,
And mixing with the pure earth,
Until the soil is tainted with a dead man's sins,
Seeping deep into the dirt,
Stemming from the roots which make a man,
The soft whispers of a dead man's song,
Stay there while the rest lies to rot,
A dead man is made one with the earth,
And one with the air we breath,
The screeching and howling of a man,
Moves swiftly through the wind,
The soft whisper of a dead man's song,
Sits quietly sighing with relief,
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
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