We wrote the burning book about old wooden flutes.
We shot down frowns and teased eyebrows for loot.
We gave grace a new name and ran rampant through corridors of amazement.

We the unsullied.
We the newly named.
We the true hearted.

Solemn standing we pronounce a revision of senses from the insensible. Each new sense will be spent in accordance to the rent of the highest bitter.

We tremble in fierce terror at the hungry relishing eyes of the undevoted and unconcerned. They play pale, but in truth they lie open as fathomless pits. All consuming and uncomprimising.

This is where we die.

This is how we come to hide away, crying, vying for a place to learn reason and abide a few seasons in peace.

Release.

We shout triumphant,
explicit in our unending joy.
We devote all our time to freedom.

We broke free.
Now we want to fix it.

http://sacredcircus.tribe.net