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The Pyre

an interesting thought none the less until the thoughts given to one and the same what it is

a paradise of disembowelment carried away into the abyss of things rotating upon the edge

at the precipice a vision of all remembrances flailing amongst the bones building up sucked

each and every all and time to tell it the story far removed from realities skipping stones still

thrown broken sound scrapes the surface of the ice laid pond just about melted in the eyes

too bright that compass lifted and arched by angles cornering off in angles round a force

incapable of description that face of the mirror shining perfections beamed entrails spidere

in each web crawling slowly like a leaf floats down a peaceful stream gaining momentuum of

the winter's fleece given in to springs looking glass relinquishing the vision of a summer way

out beyond the seams splitting at the dress torn in tatters just to see what is beneath the

eyes of the mind in realms flattered in every paradigm the mindless alignments of thoughts

shattered the colours form greyscaled reflections or wast it the opulence of painted

invention for to trick belief into kaladescpopic questions oft had by the time we were there

it was back in tune again the silver face off a mercurial discussion on imagination to decide

which was which and in what time wast it againe the coloured mirror reflecting shining bliss

or the painting of faces dripped in each light beams sharp instances of breaking the mold

wherein once lied the facets of a diamonds corrected manuscript which were the drawers

and what is the hint of hues indescribable that babbling brook of colours mixed for a pal

self the same and portrait the mirrored face handling nothingness on each side of a tape

emptiness enthralled for revolutions of dissolving tinctures salt at the bottom of a glass eye

finding nought at the movement of hands circling the fire and calling it light, art thou heavy

night, dost thou fall upon the shoulders of a wicked Death, devilish in the dance of a fiend

you wicked fiend, thou couldst be a million light instances of steps lingering feathered wings

glistening at the shimmer of a knife blade in the light shaded by irresolve, evermore involved

weapons drawn quite the vast expanse this opening at the end of the worlds fog, at the end

the minds cognition, we call it consciousness this neverland that continues all the day long

and at every nightfall the same conversation through all dreams goes on & on & on, waking

up talking complex sentences, complicated for the memory drifting off downstream whilest

fighting the breaking dawn too golden for the words spoken from the sutras talking snakes

it is a flower in the garden of enchantment past the forest of prevalent woes, sleepy king

dreams oft beneath a tree of gold, just to find the time to be lost again, in which way was it

that mask buried beneath the blanket of another year gone to the sand, the weight of each

grain once secondary to the time it contained now healivy lingers on the tongues twisting

in the mind from jawbones dropped beneath eyes hunger felt before the space created light

it was a fire back then, in a pit to be remade whilest the penduluum swinging couldst hardly

relate the dance rounded in each moment a time spent in each time spent more gold to be

minted and stamped, back to the parchment, back the message barely uncovered found

rotting beneath the shadow of a black tree standing beneath a black moon bleeding black

blood onto the white mask buried in leaves of the library in flames, circling madness before

pulling the pin that held closed the gargolyes tongue suspended above the mantle piece

catching the staring eyes between the past and the future shelved for the stars inspired to

rise from the desert land lifted by broken hands at the edge of the precipice of nothingness

a vast expanse of morning dews go forgotten, I have numbered them all by grassleaf, and

for each, the exact hour at which they arise, paraphrased in a book that was once there just

a book lost in the land of dreams running away from me, this shelf eats the cancer in me

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