i handle the rhythm like rodin handles his hammer and chisel
this is what happens when fusion clash with the fission. its physics-defying and
i'm every mystic's and scientist's
most sought after specimen, so i'm hidin in a lion's den
away from impediments meant to end my cllimb to zen
or nirvana, whatever you wanna call her. i admit
the coronas with the marijuana hardly compliments
my intuition's wishes kid, but shit, it's hard to fight the itch
i get every second that their lies persist
and sparking dims columbia's torches that they blind us wit.
the flow is kinda sick like the fact atmospheric ions is
manipulated by haarp tesla project devices is.
i close my eyes and drift
away into the darkness spittin on some fuckin non-fictional celestine prophet shit.
truth's a cold road, holmes. get your moccasins.
and listen 'cause ton's poems are gonna lift your consciousness.
they fit beats like pleiades fits to martian monuments
andromedan's will find this script under the face's obelisk.
ain't it obvious? the competition can't accomplish this
wordplay, flow, content, or even timeliness. no.
the flow is providence so i keep mobbing it
with ark, oz, and jah-i-witness. open your mind a bit.