When We Are No More

The music will be played after four
of those who have gone before.
I have heard from the Iroquois
stanzas of us when we are no more.

Hear this! Ear this disdained spice,
Mayans have lived in a string different,
their sounds are eloquent to guess.
Shaitans never left the right strobes of the moon
for we are evil lairs locked in limbo.
According to the saints of time,
no second is beneath the ground.
No homes shall crack its wood
and allow jungle mature in the hood.
Find your purpose and word it
Find your heat and sun sheet.
No cues shall line up for you
No colors shall honor blue.
This is why I write to the few

The music will be played after four
of those who have gone before.
I have heard from the Iroquois
stanzas of us when we are no more.

Ruddapoet

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