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For the Earth rocks it to sleep in the core of rotted lava.
The pieces of the night lie still in the cave,
But not for the remanence of loadstone and stray roots.
Radioactive poison makes the hardened ash a sponge,
As the neon rave begings.
Shells of roaches implode inward,
The echoes of their cracked protection no different than excreting homosapien marrow.
The toxin originating from the modern cavemen,
Seeps below the corneas of bats.
One thousand wings stop their flight,
Betraying the metronome of the techno.
Miners become dissapointed,
No longer finding the reflected spectrum,
To witness the color of greed in its place.
Clay drawings of ancients upon the stone walls,
Frown in the agony of lost hope.
If the lava didn't think it was a rock,
It could stimulate its thoughts.
The holes would be plugged.
Even the rain cannot wash away the candy apple glow,
That had made its home in a mindset of false determinism.
The most ragged parts of geology can still be welded into jewellery.