(Novae Terrae)

And under the bruised, black sky Blanketed by stars Serving light like murals held high above the ant hill we call earth It's where we sang songs about destroying the art of song It's where we burn books in protest of [?] In protest of destruction The beating of humanoid hearts Quantized to a clicking mouse Its rhythm building walls around itself Soundproof and with no proof of life and no signs of death What we have been searching for had been written in the [?] of the leaves And the the dirt we had spent a lifetime trying to wash away Was the God we had tried so hard to put a face to