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The Sword In The Stone

what was within was without a doubt something, for the courtship passages


and floating about without tether, I devise, I couldn't know more or less of what


thou wanteth I to follow thee, yet so quickly thou devise my doom, thou trickery is


masterful, thou seeth in my eyes I so endure, and going in for more, find I the door


thou bleak outlook, thou down trodden woe, thou thrown down the stairs again


yet this time thou old man, shalt thou leave the inn, wast a home built upon a dream


thou dreamst thee that thou must end, and thou must find thyself against the wind


no more looking into the mirror, my friend, no more basking in the delphic trance


and what has ended cannot begin again, what begins may or may not be what you


think, what I know is absences, what I seek is somewhere deep within the forest


can thou bitter man, continue on past the break, far out past the break we were


now hidden in the mask again, tear off the wicked fiendish thing, tear out the page


and burn, the sigil, Death, the urn, left to smoke, the past is all in pieces upon the floor


the circle drawn, the feelings gone, sure, to be made once more anew, in the old world


in the pure land, the dirtiest creator yet, written in blood on the wall, if I could only


remember what the song was called, can still recall the tune, canst still recall what


it felt like to live, and must thou, must thou face, must thou live again, canst throw


thyself deeper in the pit, canst thy, canst go deeper than before, into deaths eyes


cannot know what thou dost not know, cant understand the reading, possibly, all


is lost, or possibly all is found, all I know is that it has never been up to me, DOWN


Down the stairs, rip down the tapestry, all of the seals snapped in half, all of it was


all of it was so promising, I didst not even get to the point where I givest back what


it has I had stolen, though what it is I had stolen I know is never more to be returned


snap the sticks, the obelisk, the drawings, the writings, to flames, re living the past


is returning to life, thou art dead, doth thou know it, thou art dead and, to never


being ashamed, of thou most hideous dance through hell, thou givest what thou


cannot take back, whatever it is whatever it was whatever it is you know she hath,


and yet somewhere removed again, the paintings fall one by one, and in each the


glass breaks, and in each the paint takes, to filling each the hallway with colour,


stop going back, stop removing the mask, stop believing thou ist different than


what thou dost see, thou and thou, thou one and the same, or ist it now that thou


does so believe, within thee is thy spirit, right, or is it that thy spirit is thy soule,


or is it that reality is shifting and the spirit of thy soul is true, and more true is that


thy spirit believeth while the man behind the mask doth sit, and the spirit moves


in circles, circling the soule, while the body is completely something different, or


is it a trick of the mind to believe that what is it that lives, is the soule, the spirit


of Death, and the mask is all that is left of thee, what mask, what crown, what


serpentine, what dost thou eyes do believeth thou see, wherefore art thou thy


self to be, is it thine, is it thee, and which is reality and which is dream, and which


doth thou do choose, choosing is the great belief and in choosing thou so maketh


a move, and without form, nor without truth, thou breaking realities sleep, dream


it does the moving mind to move, and sleep does in realities sleep, in blackest depth


the darkest art, the murderesque heirarchy, our key locks the doorway, the doorway


disappears, before thou wast there, there was there no more, thou hast disappeared.

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