shut the fuck up
Stranger, the syllables from your throat are the things you thought, you perceived, you chose, you believed, you wanted, you theorised.
You try to give them to me but they are yours, not mine.
I see the rain bouncing off the hot tarmac, clouds bashing together, trees fighting the wind, lightning bolts making contact with earth, my breath against the window pane as I lean in close the sky flashes, a tempest rippling through the air, nature screaming and screaming, tired of the ignorance, selfish, thoughtless stupidity, greed, the moon waning at ingrained irreversible perception, the dying of everything, the lost in the melee, distracted, diverted, set up.
Keep your scriptures, your sermons, your discourse. They are yours not mine.