The Collected

Fuck tradition. We need believers lined up for miles, striking out past the isles. Truth never rang in their ears so be gone their blasphemies. Crawl toward a new dawn, somewhere beyond their errant siren song. Baptize a new day in the mud that cakes our feet and keep walking so truth and civilization meet. May God stop what stains our sheets. Move beyond the individual. Come together, dear people so that similar minds may rid this filthy world. A new colony begun under the birth of not one bastard, not one spoiled blood, but one of pure meaning, soon to be weaning. Throw maps into the same mud that cakes our blackened feet. There will be no return to those lands. Cut at the wrist and sever spiteful hands.