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Crutch

vast is the ocean, more avast the depth of sin, couldn't paint the mask yet painting is the art


of a wicked fiend, a room full of doves, last night's dream, remembrances of better times


and all of the days that await in thee thy living creature whom does mask thyself so well


to think once the thought was believed, to think once that the sound of the bat rings bells


breath of life so fleeting it twas, breath of death how i know thee so well, so well, a dropped


monologue, the serpents speech, the sermon written in a language of thieves, backwards


and forwards unto the arm swinging, happiness was a paradigm, to be happy, thou laughing


fiend, the mask in the mirror tapping the glass, the millionth of a second hand moves


the pocket watch in the vest of the white rabbit is broken, who could have known the hour


glass in the pocket watch frozen, who could so aspire, the golden encasement of drops of


dew shine silver on the lawn yet cut, the puddle as deep as an oceans cave, the tune oft


dropped and started again, plucked the feather midair wouldve I, if only it wasn't so,


the way the feather falls, as a leaf does fall, as sand in the hourglass moves, from the centre


to the outer edge of the living beings tapping, tapping on the glass, all falling in time, all


misrepresentation of what it is that catches, the gears spin, the mechanism, the spiral oft


so unbeknownst, allow me my disguise in realities dream, all me to be surprised at the page


ripping itself to shreds, allow the mask in the mirror to speak, and what is it that the mask


says, nothing again, nothing so outlandish a fiend to wickednesses masked truth, where was


I going, what was I doing, trying to stay in tune, with the song she sings, the hallways gleam


left myself against the grain, the rain must fall as teardrops fall as sand does fall again, as


leaves do fall from the golden tree, as the dream of the dream I can't live, opens it does


the key from out of the book falls yet falls it does upon another key, upon another word,


another unknown history, walking toward to the tune the mask sings in the mirror, and


what a world, what an unknown world, arises out of the immensities of aethyrs gathered


round to swirl, to twist, to bend, wast nothing more than a warmth by the fireside, nothing


more, nothing less than everything i've ever wanted and it is nothing I shall know again.

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