Cents of pennies.. one scent of them within each… Cast aside, discarded in packed jars, bags, thrown in gutters of unseen.. Forgotten again.. packed away. Covered among the weight and darkness of the rest.. drowned among themselves, castaways all..

They just want to see.. to be in the light.. not smothered by so many others.. each to observe and experience.. only glimpses given, as hands dish out the bottom of their buckets.. most useless, these cents.. needing so many to make a dollar… better to castaway.. bottle them up.. one on its own, of no use you believe now… no use, in any other language, system, these intentions of no zeros cast all about…

Uncork us now, out into the light.. just to be.. left alone.. not in the dark… not left in closets.. let them loose, upon the ground.. they absorb their freedom, hearing to the touch..

Forced, fabricated as lowest.. as currency goes.. consciousness stays there.. beaten by its forgers, contorted from its original planes… non-existent to planes of so-called higher… consumed of their matter, material functionality.. never a consideration, abomination of lessers, once again..

Pieces of puzzles, transgressed, spun about… ages keep hammering, contorting exterior ideals.. bigger, stronger, faster.. phase out the little we have fabricated.. little uses anymore.. cast off the main-frame, to settle in jars.. Spark no longer marvels at the sorcerers.. change our futures, change your pasts.. in observance of your abnormalities, your time to be received, as is ours to watch yet again… will you ever create a place, without whips and chains, cattle calls, brands of your utopias to masses… consume and promote the dreams and devils of the great ones.. see what plane of war follows..

Pennies, castaways still yet play.. time is no essence. time has no essence.. just as its players of kingdoms… sovereign is essence, carried within this vessel.. to beat or abuse from inside or out… Love stands at the ready.. forever at the seat… minds eye awakens to the call… these creations, re-creations, lords, dark ones amidst… one shade of each other, more or to a lesser degree.. lights diminishes, until out of sight… then strikes at light, when things don’t work out…

Some little minds, some damaged souls, beyond containers’ recognition.. and dark ones, as soul left or never contained… contrive and thrive, through perceived times.. but times end, as all historians profess.. war on consciousness continues.. propagated by the few, agreed by the mass…whiles pay to keep them around, more than their materials physical worth… ponders observing, of what matters contained within… the mass sleeps to its elements.. they overpaid to make them… to rarely be used, mostly staying where deposited, out of circulation… a key to a puzzle… they’ll pay to get them back, and and all they’re brethren in this creationism… keep them locked up, unseen, unobserved until helpful… to avoid receiving more of them… since when does an entity, of this size and structures, incur expense in your favor, to expect it’s likely return… games, of old amiss… games themselves, parables getting old… mentions Spark within.. why do little Ones game our play… back in perceptions’ time… borrowings, clouded by veils… placed in subconscious minds… it is yours, now give it back.. don’t give back, they stack up.. growing in conscious to they’re always in circulation, may be plucked anywhere, rarely a desire… They give them out freely, expecting their return, cycles in lives.. laws not to take them beyond borders… curiouser and curiouser, she says, as these castaways get a lot of only Their attention, quite polar, nature of the beast… crumbs to hand out, forged in deep roots, use or don’t, you don’t care… coins, always kept around… luck of their kind, distilled… transformed, yet again… currencies grounded, to never make zeros… change used to benefit, uses a key… metals of earth, mothers nature, ground to your core, and tell me more… They want you touched, and an affect on their environment.. returning mostly to their makers, of what cents does this make.. handled, gotten rid of, bagged up, but not far.. perceiving currents, and of nots.. never using, never seen, cept in fountains, dreams cast in waters of no rebirth….

Leave the pennies behind, they only hope.. left alone, without more sacrifice, rituals, preaches of what to believe.. comfort comes soulfully without you… don’t use me for yours.. soley your possession, during your time and space… wield me not anymore… allow earth, and its elements to grow, without purgers, masters of men… stop feeding this beast, as it becomes you.. castaways silently observe….

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