© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
She was landscape language a painters witch to burn, a burden of the
shapelessness that you have to earn, dreaming hardcore medicine she
makes the devil’s bed, takes the wish of what you would and leaves what
you are instead, pushing skies of plunder Adam’s safety net, the apple
like a cannonball finds its target met, she leaves no reasons wounded;
supplies the dreaming dead, the burning bush of her body the apocalypse
of her head.
Undulating atoms the apprentice of the blame, the moon of her demeanor
and the desperate need for flame, every moment is created in the apathy
of her womb, the seed of your success and the harvest of your doom.