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S T A R

Rings of the smiling stone skipping fantastical


Know it nought what it is I speak for, none the less more of nothingness flying for the children for the for the children hiding within each adultery for - bidden kept the secret hidden keep the best away keep the seat from masking the face in the smoke for the chair it squeaks the squalor the more than enough and never the same more of the lie and biting the hand strike the lightning and plant a tree what is it this this is. Mystery. There are advantages to being this this being shadowy there is the land and far from the sky it is falling there is no calling until the abyss opens before the precipice evermore into it what it into wherefore art shall be not a reflection in the ice laid pond does speak so salivatingly so speak dost thee thy most truthfully distorted revelations display once more to play once more upon the stage oft dressed for to be masked it is the way it is tied behind the back each the hands a thousand of them sandfalls the way the rainfalls did it was a moment then in the study of scarlet shining opal to keep the catching flames from overtaking the mindful, keep thyself in place and check the wax before it drips before thy self there wicked fiend drops the vial on the wooden floor ancient this thr wood is ancient somehow beneath it the carpet somehow tearing up the room in flames on fire each the walls inverse in black, blood kept spinning golden grains grow through the land swept the whole field before the seeds were placed each in rows the skeleton faces empty time in freezing rainfalls above the precipe twas it always this deep was it always somewhere miss


Keeping time in a glass spilling effortlessly


Happening again in the cavery of the slaves keeping the gypsy in chains bleeding just to read the sonnets keeping lucid minds thinking endlessly just to see the vintage text of the turning page flipping aimlessly in the light upon the stage of the compass for days the light poured red in the hand held above the precipice of nothingness of something from abundances of the heart locked up in the dungeon wrestling with shadows whom dost flickering light each the diamonds glow licking up the carpet oft found to be unrolled down the hallway into darker hues revolutions of the planets repeatedly spinning out of control just once could it be this galavanting the spirit of the soul sacrificial, the soul of the madness chaotic, chapter of the dove wings sewed back on just to just to GOD tearing at the seams cutting the strings empty the worlds for to be words falling in and out of the mindless expanse catching fire for fire for the hurt it gives the mind it bends the all encapsulatine serpents sand of the hourglass tapped wherefore art is hardly ever creation and creation, creating creation, characters invigorated


It is a sinister hand cut above the wrist for SIN


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