The revolution will not be televised (in trans-mutative prose)

There is a movement taking place in these days of thunder and ghostly whispers of the end of days. There is a rising that comes from the rumble  that starts low in deep cavernous depths and mysterious continents despair and distrust brooding under the sea of smiling faces.  A generational voice chamber opens wide as marching bands and balloon driven caravans parade into the street pouring through the city like warm honey on brown toast, scavenger pillages the dirt and desolation in search of fair tidings beggar murder consolation. The hour glass is tipped on side and time hangs heavy in the balance, partition the walls and make space for new halls as these corridors are filled in again with those waiting to be opened to new zen, blaming the chaos on the fathers that laid us grounded by fate and chased off by traders, the avalanche quickens and largens as it falls on the island we built when we  sitting so tall, barricaded in by self-loathing and sorrow the heart waits for the hearts sake and prays for another tomorrow, hands clasped in hands brother and sisters in arms, revolution this tired paradigm and bring an end to all these petty qualms, wait for shooting star to pass and pray that happiness shall come at last, nothing to cause worry pain or fear, the end will finally come because the end is now very near.

 

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