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And the Bourgeoisie This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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We were born in a field made of silence and tinfoil,
The grass shrinking upwards, with static for skies
And we lie decomposing apart from the sunshine
Just shadows of bodies, with heartbeats for eyes.
While the pulse of the ground takes us over, your hopes
And your fears and your darkness seep under my skin
As the storm clouds made out of aluminum mourning

Swirl rampant around us, our blood running thin.
See the fates can’t descend here, the rain
falls in faulty directions, the hurricanes offer relief
Yet it’s no disappointment to fall awake scattered
across the lands, bodies so fleeting and brief.
And I dreamt of a field last night, drowning in sunlight,
All feverish with freedoms we never caressed
Like the minefields of hope that ring crisp in the distance
And filter the chaos invading your chest
So maybe you’re ready, to cast off these chains
And to savor the life on your skin
But I think I might stay here, let nighttime devour my solace
Breathe deep, and recover my sin.
For I’m tired of the sunshine I never uncovered,
I’m tired of this poisonous air
But the roots that extend from the length of my body
Have flourished inside our despair.
So I hope that the pure blue skies hollow you,
Pull you apart to dismantle your fear
And with time you’ll forget that the static of thousands of summers
Lies beating beneath you,
I’m here.



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