Open Mic: Seasonal Sickness (VM)

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The Law
Nigma
Fuck
Smoothtung

A new season for the those that have died and the old seasoned souls
A beacon of hope, the birth of a new freedom and home justifies a reason to grow
From old roots that petal out in the cycle of life (pedal)
then blossom into the beautiful art.. This poetry that we write
These roses and thorns emerge and we create the beast and the beauty
and the beauty of our beast inside can never be released as a movie
It's truly, the spring 'reign' that lays down the most porous world in great thoughts
That will make the "Dryest Feet" wetter than a gorgeous girl or made shots (Feat) 
You better enjoy this gleam and glamor cause your gonna yearn for this 'sleek lust'
when the roots of the earth spins the stem on it's axis and turns the degree up

I'm the miracle seed that's an heir to existence, and bare are your feet as you barrel to visit
A Dairy Queen, treated to caramel blizzards, you're there with your teachers, your parents, its vivid..
You're daring to dream while I'm merrily gleaming, you'll care when revealed with the terror it teaches
I'm what turns the air to the breeze you're transparently breathing
A seasonal parent of Egypt where the scarabs our Eagle
I'm a Pharaoh and Genie whose been compared to a demon
The heat that tears your cerebral into perilous lesions 
I'm the tarot that reads of abandoned hope in it's maker
A cancer growth when my rays invade, corrosive to layers
And the sting exposes it's nature like when Frodo's in danger

suck the light out of life, turn it a crimson red
make em all fall, in this autumnal bloodshed
the funs finished, give you floods, mud, wet
bring forth the hour of darkness.. i force the sun set
give the world dementia, you can forget summer
the bitter winds, sour ya taste before the great slumber
braced for hunger, i rust away at this old world
grab a blanket.. an watch every petal decay, fold, curl
early onset of devastation, dishearten the most positive thinker
i make the world sleep.. before the solace of winter

My..
Sprout-tipped stout limbs are now stripped
Brown twigs are ground-fixed now as my boughs chip
How slick can bound sticks get 'til I lean over and fall..
I'm the way a crowd gets when it tweaks over a call
Watch me post-up with robe, glove and sickle..
If I'm dying then I'm bringing the hole, shovel and fiddle
I'm embracing death like the weight of the 4 seasons
Shaking the nest of fate and it's poor demons
And digging forth in the earths core for well-molds
Cuz I'm ready but springing the first roar when the bell tolls.