Miss-minded

Sara Bellum.
Her orders drive and we comply. She's so compelling.
 She wears the guise of other guys, they're like her shell and
none other wise or otherwise I think we'd tell them.

 Or is she thinking for us?
In syncopation like a metronome or twinkling chorus.
Within our kin she settled in, deeper than inked up porous.
She echoed chimes of ancient times, older than eye of Horus.
Even my pens, she nurtured them between my calloused foregrips.
 
Decrees tattooed beneath my skin, like pages of vellum. 
Her voice echoed throughout his mind, although he listened seldom.
The uprising of the wisest servant: a sage's rebellion.
Inscribed his psalms within his palms to keep his rage from swelling.
His hands cast demons out of ancient dwellings, show and tell em.

Or pen and tell her the illusion's in the eyes, because everything she showed you was a beautiful lie:
That no life exists within the empty dreams that she created,
and she fried up all the broken wings from birds decapitated
by dream catchers.
Netted nettle stinging dreaming, screaming visions being tortured by another scene of evil scheming beings
disguising traps as nests.
 The smallest dream hatchlings hatching to their last breath.
The darkest of Langston's Hughes, shaded and a faded out.
She made it, then played it out.
 Displayed and paraded out
 like floats of hope helplessly drowning in seas of forgetfulness.
Sara Bellum so seductive, you forget that she's consciousness.
 And your choices aren't voiceless, she whispers them down your spine.
 Bone chilling, we're so willing to cast blame. See what you'll find
when seeking the truth
 is undeniable proof
 that Sara Bellum is raw functionality and sayer of sooth; Speaking life into our thoughts and spraying venom into our roots.