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Is This A Real Wood Key

ancient blasphemy within the mindless dews dropping at the thought of what it is to be


what it is to want something and find nothingness at the edge of the precipice floating


for wind then and for the trees just aching beneath the ground dying for a taste of it to see


what more is it that could be found deep within that ancient blasphemy the toilsome pit


of emptiness bleeding darkness from up above where were are now down below without


sound all things moving slow all things slowly grow into focus then all things seen in the


realm of of eyes staring each eye stares then stairways twisting spiral spiraling in twists


straight through the light beam that hits diamonds in the first basket of the begger man


sitting in a forgotten land somewhere lost to times old clock that antique drop of the sand


for dust blown off the frame shining mirrored reflection of the mask looking once to the left


and again then to the right the head tilts back each reflection off each mirror angled perfect


for the path of the light striking at the endless hallway ever against the darkness that stays


retreating further in just one more step one more reflection one more mirror mirrors the first


eyes caught between each mirrored frame emptiness within emptiness space for the light


to play all the children's feet start running and laughing clasping hands that skip more


lightly at the foreign thought, whom is it who plays here, whom is it who laughs more running


then and faster than the light catches each reflection in the mirror bringing the awareness


back to consciousness to grasping at the thought floating away into the light reseeding in


the soil taking root to ancient ground buried deep beneath the guests laying in their graves


each one dug deep another quick discovered lost to the mindless dews a breath as each one


falls one rising again as each raindrop coloured red red bellowing the screams coming from


beneath far deeper than reality is considered once it was so believed this ancient stone this


towered round shot off into the night sky rings out the wine rings of the shirt torn from the


flight from out of the window falling the gypsy remembered then what it was at this instant


trying to fight the ever pervasive all prevalent force of nothingness to bring ones feet home


toward the ground the gypsy goes and from the history of written words floating at the touch


the manuscript so ingeniously hidden written by the blackest blood on the blackest night of


the fullest moon with the darkest might of theives the stone is rolled away from the entrance


of a cave all is lost the engulfing scent of the incense of the begger man in begger cloth rags


torn the moment of from the sleeve the gypsy man wipes the flute clean poised upon a rug


petals drifting from the thrown introduction turn to doves and at an instance of the glance


of the reflection of the mirror the white mask drops and the wings are torn off and from the


clouds the lightening then from the lightning the flames rising from the golden coin tossed


between the hands of the begger man to the gypsy king the child prince starts laughing at


the ridiculous idea that once a begger man could have been more then a begger whom no


sound has been heard not a word not a whisper nor a flickering of a lingering sigh pointing


to the signpost at the end of the crossed roads where the two trails end and the pathways


turn within once here before once here again what was once above shall be brought below


what is once below shall never be seen again drifting sand passed arms still at the motion


less than thought it was more of an endeavour less of an action more of a clever catch at the


mechanisms turning gears all the diamonds set in place all the places we once have been all


the second guessing counting each sand grain beneath the ocean holding breath like with


the hands of consciousness reaching from the eyeless realm closed and turned round tied


twice the knots of the slave to the monk in the desert begging for a taste just of the flood


of tears from the night ripped torn sleeves for the wounded soldier resting beneath the tree


whom had the thought once, where is it that music, that ancient tune, so forgetful i was just


nodding off beneath the golden leaves each one falling at the intake of a momentary breath


each leaf falls to never rise again dying at the timespan spanning between all things within


space all spaces within all things seperate between all spaces sepereted the light still reflects


on when it twas the last time things all at once the last time when things were together then


the last time it all made sense and what a sense it was five eyes in the sixth realm of spiders


glowing invitation more eyes in clusters of the grape vine flowing like blood for a stick for


a vision at the vast expanse of creation where all begins and ends where all trails meet the


same to split where all things splitting seperate and meet again where all things crossed in


the movement of a motion, momentarily, to be thinking then, the children in the hallway


start and stop running ever just a receeding infinity of the first step taken too lightly ever


just a repeating nuance of a hand reaching for a hand reaching for a feeling of something


within and what that is what more couldst thou want the white mask in the mirror turns the


faceless demon of the opera tilts the frame of the mirror hanging by a nail in the wood yet


in some distant place somewhere deep within some lost epiphany the soliloque was writ


the flutes notes take ahold of the captivated guardsmen the rope swaying side to side at


each one and againe lifting rises the serpentine poison from the mouth of the gargoyle


drooping from the catch jawbones torn out of each of their heads they all fall down the same


at the precipiss of nothingness have barely lifted a petal then barely plucked the flower stem


she loves me, the child king says, she loves me nought she loves me the gypsy prince speaks


in vast engulfing flames consuming all things round the corpses in the graveyard of the dead


it is just the nothingness within the vast expanse of life that devours the consciouse strife of


love in the dream of fools for a flight of doves wings lingering fall the blood drops secular


the mosiac tiles of the ice laid pond frozen over oft too much and when the doves when the


doves were flying then they were higher than soaring they were climbing the airwaves of


the dawn unto the dusk they were, i swear they were, and the petals drifting by every petal


was another mirror and in each mirror was another goodbye another night divided by stars


in spectral diffusion ravishing the light torn beingness of confused eyes inside the paradigm


outside the mind within the thought floating by like dove wings still flapping after being


torn out the root of persuasion hardly a mask couldst speak the language of silences just


beginning to settle into it just a bit i'd say just a forever escaping dreamscape landing on


the top of the mountain beneath the tree upon a stone feet crossed legs deadening the


noise from drifting dove wings flying crooked for the throne the body of the hull of the ship


of theives stolen by whom and sailing then into the bleakest outlook of a disregarded un-


discovered vision of the naked bodies in flailing bliss the pleasure senses exploding masses


within outside the mind thinking what it is to find a thought to be devoured then and circled


circumscribed the navigation and navigated the circumfrance of the radius for a diameter


split the core of the seedling ignited by what then shall we call it instinct life knowingness to


become a tree to grow leaves and spread more seeds overtaking the oversoul undermining


the mind within the mind without thinking thoughts about the thoughts thinking within what


about it then the subconsciousness the mass divided by length times infinite understanding


beingness infinte complex sentences spoken by sentience in complex perusasive languages


art we englishmen art we backcountry slapping the silly fish still hanging from the tree with


no arms dragged by the slave in the desert of sin for a gardens mastery for a coloured feast


for one eyes belief is anothers trick one minds entitlement is anothers jealous whip for dogs


relishing in it yet the ever re-aligning light of the candles wick just for to have a light to be


not in the darkness once again not in the masquerade of ever receeding nothingingess at


the expanse of emptiness within found wanting at the reflection of a face distraught at the


lessons taught repeatedly oft, and again, I confess, I wast that begger man holding the flute


at the knees shining like a knife hilt in the opulence of theives standing round the gypsy


prince still thinking of the child king left somewhere somewhere no man knows some place


impossible endings to the possible beginnings endlessness begins at the impossible twist


when nothingness rings out beneath the night of blasphmey when all things ringing round


the circles three when all the baskets full to the overflowing brim somehow somewhere then


we shall dance the theivary we shall be in the abundance of the heart speakingunimaginable


cruelties tying me to thee and her to she and flapping the ridiculous tongues betweenmouth


s for spit, sweating then the gypsy man looking quite aware of teh consequence thou hast


found me in hidden the feast from the slaves hiding the diamonds collected from the horribe


lays round the desert sand in spirals seems I couldnt remember when wast it walking in circle


s then for arms falling and lifting at the thought lifted by the lotus in the center of a pond as


each mindless thought falls like rain falls like it did falls like dewdrop just newly suspended


from the grass leaf for a past belief that one is one inadvertently couldst be found wanting a


reflection to speak more clearly couldst be found jounting down the hallways queer in the


hands of the mistresses in white gowns splitting seams from the daggers edge dug deep


beneath just enough to cut the skin just enough to leave a mark she says secretly you can


see it is within the eyes reading infinite complexities speaking impossible meandering things


about a garden then it is about a gate about the latch and close the door we are headed for


a dawn the rising song just whistling the tune trying to remember that it was the last time it


happened that old song again that tune that tune the drifting midnight bite of fangs for pain


for relinquishing the ever promising landscape to the incense it just was the scent of death


masked again as a mirage in the mirror lifted for a moment at the end of the hall right there


right it was by the doorway by the entranced audience staring at the stage at the hideous


beast holding up a compass spiraling light beams escaping at the lift levitation of the mind


to stay running to collect a diamond from the basket of the begger just to float it then just


was once a beautiful onslaughter of the sense of a touch just the fingerprint of sends the one


dove to fetch the poison branch for to contain the mechanism within for to start it oncemore


again click into time sand grains fall at one and the same after another again after again


then one more as the hand knocking knocking knocking on the opposite side of the door


way into the forest of enchantment past the den of theives buried beneath the surface of


the ground was once a mask laid in leaves was once a love so outrageous once was a dance


beneath the golden leaves was at once the glass smashed over the canvas to cut the frame


and leave the reel spinning into the light downstream away from me they go away from the


world of juggling madnesses and insanties caught at the precipice of death by fingertips


so lightly just to catch a breath like a diamond it shines all of the light of life within it still


remains still it floats away like a butterfly just trying to taste the most perfected arrangment


of notes so to be had of music so to be drifitng by like the manuscript left above the mantle


to remind one so where is it then where it once was shall it be so much a distance lies be


speaking serpentine lies be they all liars near the cave of I whom does so dwell alone, no


i thinketh nought to be thought of and in thinkings nought to be taught againe my happens


to be mind bleeds light liquod liqoud liquid light close up the curtains tight round the mask


and find thyself to be drowning beneath the sand deeper into the ocean breathing in the


aires captivated play for theives flipping daggers by the point then for the knife sharpened


thrown into the knot of the wood surrounding the doorway where once a room was in flames


once there again beneath the windowsill was just a moment then was just a second glance


to loong staring at the eyelids staring back at tme too loong to stop the dying heart from


becoming a cold winters wind blown idealogy coudlst nought contain the spiders venom


from pouring through the skull coudlst nought be more afraid of the outcome nor the play


nor the dashing man dashing away dazzling the audience for attention but thats just what


we want you to think first trick of theives slight of hand levitation of speaking things moving


like the mechanism within the compass sets all into motion again barely a second has past


all shall be forgotten then all the jewelry snatched all the clasps are broken and all the dress


be torn and all that was once so beautiful and clear has now become a violent war for what


then and for whom may the dance begin, when, the bell rings the tower stacked like stones


it was just there for a spell then yes it was the flutes song just there it was and now its gone




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