You've got to be in power to nurture the lands
The drone in my echo is piercing to the wind
Must have a discernible touch to be so apparent in midnight
Brief, calming thrusts of vibrant disenchantment
Tackling the triumph all others lack, the touch of love
The brittle tact of the mightiest to fall
In all others, better known is a forfeit to value
A dusting off of sturdy obligation
So much as to be an apathetic, limp mule
Coiling barbed wire envelopes the soul of ineptitude
Ascertainable to that same pulse of thrust
Not yet in rare form, true bloom, bomb beauty
I alone will taste the still foreign stench of nirvana
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