There's No Spot To Be Whitewash In Purity

There is no spot to be white-wash in purity;
Big echos of sound can neither;
be heard when we sit;
on the fence.

Nor can they be heard when we gang up;
in fields and laboratories of gossip.
Through uneven seasons;
in the reigning of a year occasionally.
With leaves too flexible in passion to change shade.

Thumbs that looks down;
hands that wiggle when greeted,
and hearts that shivers when warned.

For any parts of the herds;
of our generation, shouldn't refuse to grow his/her horns.

In the brain or the heart.
In the nose or the ears.
In the eyes or the mouth.

Let's be ready to grow horns.

Horns that will fierce and stirs
the stomachs of the beasts.

Be it a four-chambered beast;
or one chambered beast.
In the desert or in the forest.

Let no evil pause our voices.
In an attempt to gossip.
Like you, we welcome the braves.

And un-assume how hard;
or easy they would stand.
For in that sense;

We pinned on the next gate;
Of the luxurious kingdom.
To care for those wounded warriors.

Regardless, we fight to be contented atop;
overfilled buckets.
Once we don't know we will touch the ground.

Copyright Sep 7, 2016. Machiek Machiek Akuocpiir Cayier