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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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