The gentle peace loves to be corrupted with spunk. The soft ripples that form as the timid beaver swims, love to be altered by the compelling rocks flung. The dead silence of humanity loves to be filled with bellowing roars. The crisp air loves to become opaque and impenetrable. The crystal waters love to be overwhelmed with debris. The chattering notes of the night love to be covered with pounding beats. Can you not feel the love! I can feel the heedlessness, I can feel the neglect, I can feel the regardlessness. It hates to be corrupted here. It hates to be altered here. It hates to be filled and overwhelmed with the new scents. It hates to be covered. It detests change which happens ever so much. The dying life, the growing world. More plastic, less plant. More useful, or is it? More interesting, maybe. Some place I sit, I see The peace, the serenity, the undisturbed. Other place I sit, I see The recreation, the change, the disturbed. It is amazingly shocking, How one can be so free from strife, And one other can be so blatant, so stained. It won't be corrected, It will never be corrected, It can't be corrected. We are carried, We are thrown. Swept along as it changes. Brainwashed. Bloodthirsty, hateful, disregarding pollutants. I will be a land and erupt.Birth sign: Not entered
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