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Verse V

somehow in the way of truth is a mask of lies somewhere deep inside spiritual alignment

with just exactly what it is and how exactly is it that the hourglass flipped when letting down

one's guard just for a second an instant finding thyself to be lost deep in sand counting

grains out just to lose count and start again there in front of the face is a blank slate where

once was a living breathing feeling thing that walked and talked and loved whereas now

what is left is a shadow of a consuming hunger a dying flame a longing after thought a

hideous disgrace that seeks not what it is to be yet always knowing what it is not to being

anything at all a thousand raindrops fall and all of them the same all of them aligning and

fall at once in perfect timing and lifting back one and another and another the raindrops

rise one at a time in order to fall again from left to right and circling round like a halo spins

circling angel's brains splatter paint settling the wave form functioning round and round

each rise and fall never lifts nor falls one wave circles as one valley moves and within the

skull all collapses unto the devils horns renewed breaking through the skin againe to cut

the letters S I N with a razor blade back then it twas an agreement between man and god

to never question and ever look on down the path the twisting turns the spiraling whip hits

the back in front of the hanging gate carving a sigil into the plank to stand upon a mountain

and at the same time jump to hold out the palm over the precipice and feel the wind to be

back there again where the living live on into liquid life as life's liquid lavish lustful listen twas

a dream but a dream it twas and goes again to breaking the horns both at first yet second

hands breed better blasphemy upon the canvased face to lurk along side the hideous slaves

hiding ever what is within bashful and every more shy than forgiven when the apple fell the

hands were full of apple seeds when the apple seeds were planted more apple trees yet ever

was the soul in morning ever rising sun forever masking what this ever prevalent longing was

and finding then truth to be without remorse without faith without the taste bitten apple skin

bleeds unto colour dropping wet soaked in dripping sweat and not ever caring about exactly

who it is whoms hand they fall whom all fall in the abyssmal throng to circle round the circling

sphere through out all of these years these many years amounting to sand to non sense drift

down streaming land to a world of ice where a fire is translucent onward to find aires more

stars collide and burst more lies cover the face in dirt more leaves fill the forest scene and

ever banging the crown against the skull from keeping time on the hanging door the hinges

black and decadent each stone sets itself and cements in place smashing the grail against

the mirrored emptiness just to create sound that echos in the hall to remember thy place

here amongst the outcasted non existent to preeminently dominate the vanishing sand

as the desert becomes marbled intoxication of incense moving like emotions move how

a face expresses what it is to feel and when feeling was something felt yes then it felt real

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