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Painting

slpendour, and another complex sentence to the vast ocean of regret, consciousness the


stream where Death walks hand in hand with I, the wall that is built through and through


where words are formed and forgotten just as quick, where all new light takes on old


meaning, where all old minds go to die in the believing, splendour, white mask left


bleeding black blood horizontally, creating lands so enlightening, through the cracks


past the seams, revolution of the angel to dance the wicked fiend, you fiend, to dance


one leg past the stepping stone, through the wall the skeleton hand goes, and somewhere


through space the staff from the tree, who knows who made it, who knows where, who


knows, somebody, not I, and wherefore art thou mystery, another dive, another throw


and anyone I once was, still statuesque, standing upon the boulder stone in the forest


lay, poised upon an angels wing, my face, innocence in the white mask hinges on the door


frame the portrait, made the video before, realization is a crooked thing, crooked masked


mirror, what is it that reality dreams, what is it I fear, and wherefore art thou flowing divinity


past looking back, way past looking toward the sky, the cloud, the passing feeling, the mind


finds itself ways to bask in the break, and break again the scene, setting up the mischievous


want, and smash the vase, it breaks, to break again the flowers peace, and tear the garden


just to see the sun, just to see the blue that hast forever been, hanging since feeling is


and was, there again, and gone, once more into the desert sand, once more into the dust


once more past the ocean, come back, once more past the motion, one more step and


another again, one more hour to the sea, one more minute in the loneliness, one more


end, one more beginning, one less than three, she stands as just as a mystery as ever


nought could read what lies, all the books in the library, all the books full of opening


eyes, all in cursive the written history, the vision of thy self with me, thy vision masks


the mirrors face, could not find a dirtier leaf, buried beneath the grave, my body buried


where a skeleton was, my mind so thusly replaced, and lost again the cemetery, in the


yard just moments ago, the line, I forgot, the beginning wast frost, and the rest was all


somewhere left beneath the snow, a thousand seasons or more of hell could not quell


the hand, a thousand seasons or more of woe could not make me a better man, a


thousand seasons of suffering would not open more my chest, a thousand seasons


or more with thee would not ever be enough, reality is a moving thing that moves


the summer sun, it moves it does as it does live, as living does bee, inspiring, to life


yes, I am a dead man with dead man's wants, yes, I am walking past the gate, paradise


I cannot return to thee, no more than hidden, no more than a wish, no more than a


second it was before returning again, no more then, no more now, no more doth thou


collapse, the mind must stand through the testament of all encapsulating traps, just


another motion, another wave, another, and another, and another falls away, with every


breath another garden, with every breath another scenery, alone in the desert finding ways


to quickly rearrange thyself, already was the desk known to be, moving, one foot to the left


and the spiders knew three days ago what the temple would be today, and doorways


align, and fire ignites, what is it that you are doing here mask, what is it that peers, so


longingly into self, the cracks get lost in the space between, where the spiral stairs envelop


lead is the mask in the hallway, spinning, the secret entrance to the other end of a web.

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