Last.

The raw grain.
underlying passages flow throughout.
When will I see the change of society
When will I ride the wing of this woman's right arm
I have come up with a work of art,
in the sense of a thought.
A thought that will surpass anything and anyone.
I am invincible until the day I ride that wing.
That wing of pestilence.
This day, is the day I become afraid
Afraid of the raw grain that I kneel on.
The raw grain that is shoved down our throats.
The fucking RAW GRAIN that we are killed with.
Killed in a sense of self-thought.
but who am I to speak?