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Motion In The Desert

the foot falls, the chain clatters, and cracks the temple of the silence, all was there


for an instance it was and better days are better left to bitter confinements, reality


returns as a the sun returns, as the night falls away, as the darknesses of sleep


and the black hour of death, invariably, blend, there are no hidden hands, there is


no I in the desert sand, the collection of dust lifts away from the complexities of stone


by the wind, whom does keep all still, all silent, without moving the wind does move


all things, without motion, the wind doth move, and ever was there so an emptiness


there are no hidden hands because in the desert there stands not one existence,


not one feeling, not one eye to eye contact, none that she will reveal to thee, none


so more a mystery, we have barely broken the surface of the ice laid pond, we have


yet to climb the mountain, yet to make the first movement in the desert rounds


all is thought bleeding revelation, there is nothing within me, all exists within thy eyes


thy mind, all exists about thy frame, hanging in the hallway, getting lost in the design


the intricate hieroglyphs pattern and move me without ever lifting a foot in ways


so unimaginable, the mask of the face of death is the mask of all of time written with


just one glance, all will be forgotten, all to be lost in the dance, all to be will be again


all so happens to exist within I, somewhere sacred, somewhere in the black depth


the light of every appearance of thy dance, the fire of every breath, closes in


be it desert, be it sand, be it water, be it ocean, all and every motion upon the sea


every and all things bringing thee and I together to be, lost in the hideous mastery


seems these old knees still get weak, seams of the tapestry, shift and break the


focus of the mask in the mirror, hidden it is now that passageway, goodbye years


infinity was a quest within, to find myself without, all that exists, exists in them now


just killing time for fun, just, opening books to rip pages out, in your mind, yet mine


forever stays, the accursed spine, the gallant ego, what more hypothesis, and rearrange


hereforeto thou mask, the tapestry alights, wast but a bitter remaining flight of the mind


to grapple with godless death, to fasten the feather unto the helmet, seems ive just


returned again, seems ive never left, the helmet dissolves into the silver of the mirror


as once was the ancient crest just a space in time, just a paradigm, just a dream in the


just it was, paradise, to the willing mind, free from intelligence, unravels all things to be


no more than the twinkling spark of stars, no more than the fairy's home, nothing more


than the toad's sacrifice and burning pyre, nothing more and nothing less than heaven


and all thou needst of hell, and all the crystals, and all the stones, couldst have told


the story, enough character to tell the stories themselves, of the temple of silence.

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