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We begin, a note. Not fully of discords abiding harvest. An echo, or a reverberation. Something simpler, yes. But all the way true regardless. In this the steps, falter, no, dance, onward, back, and again in gravity to some pull, held by strings of etheric latching. The call, forgotten, missed, and lamented, finds seed in a field held of soil without. It grows, it festers, but its tendrils hold true. Yet no fruit to bear, but a flower, weed amongst roses held. There is no reverberation now, of the note, stepped aside in calling. The sounds silence, grabs, stretches, in the light, choking, or the dark's echoes. Held, in quaking minds, does the rot spread, unchecked, unheeded, found in the depths of memory, an inkling, sharp, cold, pure. On it burrows, expands, and when ripe, bears wide onto the heavens, the bloom, the seed, shattering a glass sky. Burdened not with fetters, chains, echoes coalesce into light, gossamer, strands, burning with the faint moments of time. Within the drop of nature, the rumblings, a moment versed of inevitability, stepped on history, culminates into a single world, a single action, upon the stage, the fruition of every corner, and a single word, quintessential, epitomic, Revolution.
Something done a while ago, and sitting on my hard drive for a bit. Enjoy.
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Submitted on
April 3, 2011
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