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It is always more or less what you think you know

And never exactly what it is that you do too true

Too true, the same thing understood bellowing

Bells ringing above the canopy propped up in

The room between the table and chairs between

The carpet and the floorboards between the

Falling spines of the books aligned with a

Collapsing dream a revelry in numbers spinning

Set fire to the whole damn thing before twas

Just caught all up in the web strung song of

The songstress seemingly harmless, seeing

Eight eyes read scripture on fire of the effort

Less of the mind more of the talking hands

Less of the misconstrued nuances of time

Lingering above the precipice, never was it

To be just the masked dance of a pauper

Just the mysterious guest of the hallways glow

Dying for to be in on the joke, what was it

Tell it to me againe, I am a forgetful sordid man

From the fires yearning heart strings played

Forever lasting thing somewhere deeper in

A pit with theives always more lucid in the

Serpents speach, always a bit more dolly

Dalliance in the dancing feet, tip toeing through

The hallways crooked beams stroking dirty

Hands clutching at the nothingness keeping

It always enchanted, far too young to be this

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