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The Golden Flame

dispells all colour, takes all the blacknesses depth and creates the folds of her dress


spinning ever so slowly, she, throwing the stars in the sky from the urn of complexities dance


every drop of dew, every falling star, every rainbow bends as light from the fire, from the


candle flame, focusing as if it is, as if it was, that we had never left, just to imagine thyself


in thyself's own mask, tearing at the wallpaper with nails, in every frame a white canvas,


a white mask, in every frame, emotionless faces, and thy countenance, acceptance of death.

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The Hourglass

Point A Needle To The Sky, Centered Minds Point A Gun To My Head, Circumstantial Ends Point A : The Diamond Sutra, Centrifical Forces Yet There Are One Thousand Arms Tied Up In The Book Of The Dead An

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never was there such a hand beneath the sin play to the part of the devil's grinning twas there such a death as to it

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