DEFENDER'S RAP

• bent like a consonant tense in a sonnet that vents through the net of a continent, fence with the obvious
• march to the ambient pulse of a planet with gambits, vanished atlantis descendants with plans in the sand that expand when examined with cameras
• my damage is managed with mantras i chant in abandoned pagodas, i'm past it
• past games like bergman in black rain, burst like a shaft through a cracked plane
• map planes where the facts change but the syntax stay like it's latched to the base of a soundscape built by the hands of the jazz greats
• navigated through layers of gravel like ancient mosaics in chapels of battlefields
• damaged appeal, i'm balanced in fields where mechanics conceal the real shape of a phrase, hand to the quill
• like i'm channelin gil, anthem with ambient stillness, killing like clips stitched in a reel by a filmist who vanished
• my targets embedded in margins of parchment where scholars debated with carbon and harshness
• i harness the heat when the beat breaks buried in lost crates under steep lakes
• my speech takes form like a dream state, i rephrase the freeway like a sequence in eames briefcase
• sleek shapes that deepfakes couldn't replace, pennin like i'm evidence in the residence of a reverence, reverent text like i'm mail from ellison
• relevance shaped like a relic from edison's hellbent experiments taped in the basement of negligent men with benevolent pens
• i step where the tempo bends, blend tone like old stone temples, patient with pacing, i base this on phrases that phase shift through layers of playback
• i'm stainless and stateless, trained in the pages of sages with names that were famous in ages
• where flame was the way they relayed what they made with a blade in their larynx
• i'm backlit, i'm trackin the axis of atlas in flash glyphs, pat this distraction of graphs and attachments
• mad tracks stacked like the backstack in grad class notebooks from mit mind maps, i dial back to wax and cassette stacks
• stem path parallel to the hem of a hymn that was sung in the din of a stemmed glass
• i bend facts, let 'em flow through a lens that remembers the bends in a past math
• my craft is caught in the lap of the lost gods, often i jot in the fog of a thought that was sparked, honest with modestness
• i don't broadcast, i watermark like i'm boxed in a loft at the top of a block with a lock watch for the shift in the plotlines like hitchcock timelines flickerin
• built from a million syllables, listen with diction with frictionless pivots in systems of where limits are given