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The Wall

the left handed turn, the hallway, an endless twisting parallel, the arrow splits the arrow still

in flight, and the green apple upon the knotted wood, struck, and just by the faintest leaf,

hanging about the frame, lightning strikes, somebody screams behind the fiend the fiend

the fiend! wickedly the entire structure splits its floor from out of the roof does fall, the stone

separating itself from rock, both rooms of histories ugliest child born born too late, far too

late, all of whats left is black spinning vortex and the digital imprint of a date on an analog

cameras photography, nor to be anything less than a void, all of history, gone, death,

reversed, onwards unto the way, the celebration of life, my boy, is just behind that door.

and to get there all one hast to do is walk straight through the paintings, every step

another drop of paint, every move, more artistry painting upon itself immaculate, colour

world is ferociously mixing the reds and greens and blues, yet none have I seen yet

none will I ever see againe, no, no more colours, beautiful, no more colours, none so

thinkest not of what more than lies, as the hideous colours round the garden hue, see

vastly is the war-march within, focused, the hallway is no more than the tunnel into the cave

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