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Cross all your Salem's in foreshadowed Shalom,
do the math and burn, 
brightly back at Cairo, Memphis, Jericho-less nonetheless turn,
and those of paths now undaunted, not undone to aftermath of storm.
In the land of the free, 
the Valiance of old, be thou in phase shifting sensibilities,
like a stage set among
shifting moras in logical chronology
"and we all shine on."
In it's roll upon it's role of disc
covered by disc of cameo Moon
to glitch, turn off the beam like a switch.

Only temporary, you see, not at
all an omen of future events, undersea vents.
Pilot light, not snuffed out, nothing amiss,
no heed no need to explain, forecast-unchanged,
only alchemy of the
Scienctific, Universal, brain 
and a shadow cast in tail gate sauce and marrow, reprobates, sinners, filling their plates, while
Gaia's is shifting, under the bait and
liquefaction and tremors of
Uncelibate celebrations left to celebrate, before "it's too late baby, now it's too late."

Winter has come and is Coming, again. 
One of drought
and blizzard, like a top-heavy locomotives train, 
Moment um, sustained
in it's concessions whirled
around the world, dropped off like cargo to 
the wizardry-time lapsed,
slow motion upheavhurled in it's carry of mudwater judgment,
Amidst
Families of sediment.
Amidst the backdrop of Blackwater, Whitewater, Flint water, Rinsed of impediment.

Eclipsed by denial and ommission and trends of Babylon tour.
But lift up your polluted censers.
Ship the clouds to and fro.
The atmosphere is heavy, the Earth
a strange land-furnace and of ice and snow and shifting plans.
Its steam is condensating into
our boundless etherium, the gravy train of Sodom and it's inner sanctum, Judas-delirium-rising as
the former sinks like quicksilver sands.
The setting in its place and scripted and done, wings of Icarus to space-God, defiance staring into the Fun.
The broken habituals of this new race, 
it's Holy Uniforms, ripped from.

The rule of decency with an Iron Rod,
 a Tolkien folks idiom.
Hybrid humanistic-Synod is the new
Synagogue, of Satan.

But there's no real setting Sun.
No blight no Wight from the pyre now of the Valkyrum,
 of the shine of the Sun that giveth a symbol and light.
O end good wills desires
and Prodigys and Sons.
Spirit channel a cosmic symbol 
and accompanying chain of reaction, 
manhandling the Earth
from it's within, it's annoles, 
chronos triggers, contractions
and dominos pulled one by one.
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