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Strung Along Ways

back when the garden wasn't even apparent to me, back before the letter burnt, valentine

asleep, back before the red book written in the black throne, the white words written by

while the fire burned, tuning up, a touch of the drug, from the ruby heart, years before we

were apart, red moon, pressed for time, couldn't remember the words written to save a line

none from the book, one word neatly clean, PURE, whiten the sheets, i buried them on two

seperete peaks, and they didn't last but weeks before burning, what was the first word of

the story, where was the first blood spilt, we were all still chapping it up by the time i gave

into the collapse, right at the beginning, further from the ends, after the garden, there was

the garden, and i had already been sleeping by then, deep into the dream being written,

where it was the torch had led, before the fountain, flames, burning surface of the mirror

it creates, before the flames, blood, learning to read the riddles written upon the ice laid

pond, where unto the first spark, these written words, so many i can't even begin to recall

three or was it 4 in the skull, and round the band of the top hat of the damned face deeply

hidden by design, just a step back into the past, the mind so far ahead it seems, still

laughing at me, whom is it thyself to be, what words speak, and wherefore does language

remain to be seen, symbolic, and ever moreso deafening the sound of the screams, so far

out into history, where was I even alive by the time i was writing things burning in the fire

and what was the first one burned, was it the rainbow manuscript, the torch that led to the

precipice of nothingness at the vast expanse of things drifting around in the consciousness

it was the joke that brought me back but it was the pit that made me recognize the fact that

all has happened so long ago in the past wherefore art thou, song to myself by a stream

"caffeine free please"

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