four winds

Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name or your tribe…
There’s people always dying, trying to keep them alive.
There’s bodies decomposing in containers tonight in an abandoned building where
A squatter’s made a mural of a Mexican girl
With fifteen cans of spray paint and a chemical swirl.
She’s standing in the ashes at the end of the world
Four winds blowing through her hair.

But when great Satan’s gone… the Whore of Babylon…
She just can’t sustain the pressure where it’s placed
She caves.

And it’s the sum of man slouching towards Bethlehem,
Her heart just can’t
contain

all of that empty

space

It breaks.
It breaks. It breaks.

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