Paint the brush

I draw a Gray line in shape of a crucifix with the perfect pencil.
Representing a dynamic cluster-phobic hemisphere.
The mind of lies is watered by parasites from the heart.
Battles at the end will be spent on a lifetime through calamity.

Ask me why again and I'll open a world devoid to the naked eye.
The weight of the moving ghostly wagon wheel rolls to the dead grass from the pasture.
The grip of our mother culture is drawing a pencil from the art.
Every pathetic mass is grown to a stalk of binding faces watching from inside.

Do not try to recognize me when I sign the receipt for our own pencil.
The lead layer bears the loins of permanent liquid.
The reaping on life is unable to draw its way out of the burning truth.
Nobody has to know but the one who is too innocent to let go.

How long until the primitive point breaks off into splinters of the greasy lead?
Look inside and thrust the blaming fingers into the eyes because its just a had enough situation.
Psychosis form vitality around belief in the ear due to extent in events.