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The Manuscript Was On My Head

He was looking in the mirror walking down the hall, this lettre is getting thin, I'm drawing


Blanks again in every drawer pulled, for the bullet caught between the teeth, put inside


The gun made for it and placed upon the shelf beneath, the sacred heart of the remains


What remains I could hardly speak for it, where is the source of each one of these, sacred


It is when one divines to be angelic in the realm of a captivated stare, lost for ages the


Name whispered in my ear, what it is I think is that, in costume as one is to recollect, beings


Of the fourth mind, for the eight eyes aligned and blessed, the self projection of the body


Of Christ, whom, rearranging numbers like letters for colour, three black flames ignite upon


Horizontal candles made from the moonlight reflected off the mirror ,, the first to leave a


Scarlet imprint is Silver flown left toward the starry curtain and steps right from the cave


The center candle flame moves to the right and the left ignites engrained carved in both


One and the Same the Silver becomes all encompassing emptiness revolving in circles


Around the light bleeding out from the caduceus held in the reflection of the one kneeling


In the position of the black dragon before all becomes light upon the sanctuary againe

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