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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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