He bans the use of "Freedom" and of "Light,"Exiling every "Maybe" to the mines,To shroud the City in a curated night,And straighten out the multidimensional lines."The world is mine to edit and revise!"The Redactor screams from his obsidian throne,While stitching shut the unsuspecting eyes,Of those who dare to wander out alone.He forges shackles from the punctuation,To bind the verbs and keep the nouns in check,A cold and grammatical incarceration,With a noose of syntax round the city’s neck.The vibrant flow of life is turned to stone,By the decree of the Unmaker’s bone.
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