Nickels Is Money Too

Climbing into fire, her hands are forceful. We're burying earth in earth. White hands, soft hands: carefully. This makes no sense. What's that sound I hear? I'm lost in a state of confusion. Oh ground. I despise you, but rejoice in your essence. Envy will cease my sky. Greed will cease my sky. "Here's a farmer that hung himself on the expectation of plenty" At this time I feel there is no bottom to earth. Welcome to the museum of the dead; endless gore becomes reality. Tradition's dug the grave. The inferno has commenced