The rose-thorned shackles grasp the sound,
As bolts rooted into the ground,
Will snicker as the snare drums crack.
Beneath the forest canopy,
Where masks may hide our vanity,
The drummer keeps his steady track.
Around him, nature twines and grows,
It climbs until his elbows close,
Then dribbles softly down his back.
And while the chorus whispers low,
Each pulse feeds blood into the flow,
Foster sympathy I won’t show back.
He raised his hands above his head,
And cast upon a single prayer;
As dove-white skin has turned to black.
Yet nature dwindles, will return,
Caught lowly in his words not firm,
Lyrics that shadow virtue’s lack.
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