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deep into the concious mind the unconsciousness exists, what then for how it is indifferent

once more unto the break of dauntless days drifting down destructive pathways twist and

turn more lucid at the cornere, it becomes a dream, only the fearful try again, only the

best laid plans of men at the precipice of the abyss looking into the nothingness for all

of anything to the circumfrance is still circling, measure the radius to find the dice spinning

to find the diamonds angles one first must conclude that there is a genius in disguise there

is a devil on foot, walking crookedly through the straight hall, looking oft too hard for a

reflection of the capstone held for the light it gives, bless the ice laid pond, where is it that

they continue on, surface of the face descending, shadow of the sphere for far too long, for

it is, true, far too true it is, the leaves one day shall they fall once more, not this time they say

no, not this time for to think, that evervesvent of the roses deaths each one the same forgive

me if i say it too quickly serpentine mouth at the slythriane tongue scorching complexities

written a sentence or so myself back before, the old gold is the one you don't see, they are

out there somewhere in the vast expanse of all things to play the tune the begger hears o

say it againe unto me, somewhere drifting past the passing stream, somewhere flowers

no, capsized the ship entirely, flag of the daisy at half mast before there were colours from

nothingness, before beneath the rippling surface of the sand how beautiful it was then how

revolutions spin like the stone it flips for the coin spun headlong for desire, twas it all for

whom, shall it be another blasphemy somewhere written on the dark side of the spoon, no

never from the opposite and always the same from the source, never from the exit plan and

sometimes thou shalt find thyself the horse in the grave of a deader man deader than a

lucid mind spilling speakers for sound running away with the conversation before the words

come out the spider falls down from a thousand leagues in the clouds just for to be found

out and about, lazy dazing, out and around in the realm of rings to be worn, shalt it nought

be said, worn rings of wine spilt at the abundances of the tapping shoes left and bled, nor

shall it not be said, or was it ever the same, thinking in the same ways twice leading up to

there again it twas, at the mirror split, smashing reflections for the light it gives, for the dark

it bends, for the night it rearranges for the life of a friend, for the height of the damsal dis-

stressed out for the moonlit shouting matches sparked and hit, to the ground the falling

precipice of nothingness ever descends in-depth nuances of realities quicker hands deal

dwelt far too long, far too long to be too true in the deeper colours of the blacker hues

art thou you, who wast it then there before thou shalt sing it unto me, nightengale, bleed

thy bitterest voiceless surrender, say it once more to me in my dreams, I LIE, at thy feet

the serpentine slaughter for the blood spilled for the mindless frolic through the dungeon

swinging the pendulum by the mechanism set it stone, each the stones dug by hand you

wicked fiend, dost thou know it how to see, each stone in place where it once was before

every story reads a soliloque dripping abuscade down the faceless mask, all was there for

a moment then, all was there in the sand, the obselisk it stands, the mountain oft found to

be forever past the place of the clouds, forever into a distance of the story written beneath

the sun up down stream falter along the lines writing placidly by the lakeside of a doubt

drifting on about, distance between the ever-prevelant goodness of creation to uncreate

all things, to take away the nonsense and fill chaos to the overflowing brim with disease

call the spinning coin flip a double exposed masterpiece, it is all that is happening behind

the scenes, and whom it is who is, light shines from the captivated nothingness grasped

in the death wails of the screaming madness from nowhere shall it be found, from out of

the ground the spirits ring out, ring out, ring out the bells, shatter each the glass, in every

directions distance, in every distances directive, infinities collapsing romance, dalliance in

eternities definition, defining what it is to see, re-defining what to see dost mean, and to

then find it meaningless, well, it is a corrupted visionary certain at the calling of a snake

listening to the lapsed tongue whipping belief out of conscious confusion, bullet struck

the wick taught how to light itself beneath the silver moonbeams falling aimlessly upon

the weeping midnight mass, massacre of the mind made up before the mind there was

what then shall it be, what more should the meandering mask speak deep beneath the

surface of the ice laid pond still drifting yet vertically it falls, yet horizontally the moon yet

inclined so to prove, what the sunless rays from the light creating nothingness but flames

ignited all the same, for one and each and for all it hangs, dreadfully, would call it a vast

difference at the vast expanse of all things to be called nothingness by the lucid stream

once more unto the lucidity, singing unto the tearing seams of the of the of the fling

sordid matches strewn through straw just for what it is to find, toss each the books in and

hold them all by the spine of emptiness lingering above the whirlpool staring into black

tears held still by the momentary suspension of disbelief, me, that mask in the mirror

reflected back to me, mirroring images of mirrored reflections spiraling off and spinning

spitting colours at the dripping fiend drooling spit at the paintings frame, just to touch

the dust, blown oft for the bee, stars laid waste at the villianry, every page reads poetry

every poet bled their best at the white mask waiting to be fed the ink of a teardrop kept

and, by shining the light through and through it then, all of it in angled diamonds in the

spaces left between the black flames ignited by cruelties devilish device, swinging for

a blade, may the sparks be caught by the sound of each dwindling back to faith oft to

be disappointed at the ever tearing seams, one page at a time takes far too long, far

far away into the landscape print of the garden portrait of the walk upon the stones

skipping in place the needle never repeats yet reap it does and sows the seeds planted

in the lucid planet deeper subconscious stems fractal nuances taking root in the gems

this, of the baskets three turned one and back again, this of the spinning hands rotating

yet in all the same circles, friendly mind for the skull locked climb into the cave of theives

masked abundances beneath the feet of the begger blowing flute for to heare the doves

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