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Shooting The Breeze

wherefore art thou beginning, forever just a distance away from the shore, the white mask

in the mirror, hinges on a collapsing door, over three hedges, under four trees, two gateways

and wherefore art thou, thou minstrel, wherefore unto the wicked fiend, you fiend, books

they don't read themselves don't they, infinity spiraling, eternal damnation at the bottom of

a drink, the glass, far less than half full, like the one sigil, the one sigil made of many, cut

from many a tree, many staves, removed from many a stave, the bark, and unto many a spark

the whole, completeness in an offer, what is it thou art doing here, trust me or not, to be

exactly what it is one needs or does not need, all of history abides, faith in the mirror to

break when smashing it upon the hallways diamond, and in every mirror a face, and in every

move to be made, the overture, a thousand symphonies played at once, and are they the

same, yet in response, each one changes by a single note in every tune, all creating rising

vision, and every subject of a note stepped down, a gun shot, spiders burst into flower

portraits, a thousand men rise, and a thousand fall, a thousand flowers blooming, and

a thousand more crumple into dust, all the colours booming as the conclusion is awake,

all the colours into blacks and whites and grays, and from the ashes the fire lifts in curious

curious and more curious ways, the degree of light bending within the mind to confess

how left and right become up and down, how spiraling stitches the seams, a thousand

more grayscaled flowers bleeding colours, bleeding colours, bleeding more colours, and

a thousand more from the drops, rise and fall of every thought, with every breath, more

fire in the motionless desert, more, how many more ways to explain a feeling, how many

more ways to feel nothing, another morning, another night, another on into life, dear friend

what is it thou is masking, thou sadness, all the ways everything can make you question all

what was once to be, a feeling that becomes an epiphany, an epiphany becoming revelation

the revelation then thusly receding from the shore, closer to one than another, than another

the laughing hardly ceases to be insanities reaction to endlessly drifting landscape paintings

one becoming another, lost in the revelry of nature to split miraculous, the white mask fades

away into every breath, breathing as one in motion with pulse rhythmatic, creating patterns

of leaves on the forest floor, of the skin of the tree, layering, the trees with their branches

the branches still with their leaves, moving it is, moving in time with the light, the light

bleeds through the empty spaces of the canopy, masking the ever-so-often, ever so slight

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