These gutted hills, hills by note, hills by permission.
Empty rolling waste filled with trash and nothing
but music and volume far too soft for the composer's ear.
The call of wild stands for centuries while mountains long
for Everest glittering as brightly as they can and show
their royal decrees sealed by God Himself allowing
them sprawling lands of lightbulbs.
They crawl before before our metal eyes in rising glass towers
where expansion finds home. To think that liberty be given
to the poor to span the depths of the terrestrial sea
so that someone dares those pudgy hills to say what they really need.
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