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To Me

it is deep within the most hidden parts of thyself that one must know thyself, hours, years,

months, eternities of self-excavation, digging into the nothingness just to find more value

the mirror on the wall calls to the mask, quick turn round, to find nothing more than the

mask itself hanging from the sconce, by a ribbon, and on the small table beneath, the silver

mirror face down on a blank sheet, looking up the definition of madness again in some life

I never lived, the mirror on the wall with two candles, the balance of the doorways allure,

two candles in the hand of the skeleton man begging on knees to be free from the cave

two black flames in the palms, of the slaughter song, red, red, red, knees, deep in a vast

vision, the mask itself breathes though the action is hidden, noticeable are the cracks

within the hallways mirage, splitting, to turn one's back on the mask is certain torment

hang the portrait above the stairs, leave no mark upon the frame, the spiral staircase,

spring again, the garden is dancing for an instance, and a seat, have one she says

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