The seers look at the trapeze-shaped diagram of a heart
Its countoured edges revealing very little colour
Finding countless ways of shaping the start
Of a new beginning, a revolution, a power
They see the light as the world winds its way into their eyes
Sore as the culture's beacon lets movement in
The only way to walk is forwards negating any possible cries
Ribcages torn apart bringing in the end of their kin
The landscape making funny shapes in their plate
Countenance and perseverance all things of the past now
The faces play the number game, one to zero, a finite fate
The machinery's inner system blown to a terminal vow
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A Visceral Path
