I think the world should hear of "The Legend Of Lyra Hill". It aint no mystery she fire in her existence. She was born in the rivers bosom under the sol sun. Like none other she spilled out onto the grass like fountain lilies. A women dowsed in blood came to herself when she rose to her feet. She, time and the rising and the setting of the mid hour. The faint wind in your summer's eve. Like anointing oil she had coverage of her land. Her presence is so faint you dare not see her in your dreams, in your closet and under your bed. So religious and the way she invades our realm. Laying on of hands.
The holiness of herself, released and relinquished into the creeks of the wooden path of our past. A numbness that sucks our tears in and squeezes our throat to keep our secrets. Laying on of hands!! Oh how she reached out like a tree's branch. She is gravity that penetrates our bodies, so heavy our heads dare not look up. Laying on of hands. Aint no mystery child. Because her name doesn't reign, changes not her evident birth right. She is, therefore you are. She said save that generational bullshit for she is therefore generation is. Dare not call her God, she found him in herself and there the river spoke and spilled her fleshy self.