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Verse VIII

the feet of the gypsy hit the ground running twas but an instance of self reflection on fearing


a delicate question to leave would be to never look back the candle lighted itself at the quik


snap of fingers gathering all it is to be what it is one is to need promising mirages lifting in


between the wisps of the whipping incense smoke rising from the urn of light beams caught

philosophy ignited around a stone ever burning everything sorting itself into chapter heads


and indexes in the mind of the fiend smashing all to broken fists wailing at the temple walls


tearing at the mask attacking the face promises in a reflective plate the heart arrived held by


two ropes swinging the gate is on waves wings vexed hovering over the ocean deep black


water black floor of the temple marbling itself with twirling spirals of grey smoke from the


incense burning in the urn from light beams caught and kept in secrets whisper the whisker


of the beast in the pocket of the gypsy taking to the dirt road far from the path the mask in


the forest of sin burning the hands of the princess laughing laughing and tearing at the mask


in tears it descending deeper into pure lands holy grounds the vines of the forest floor wrap


up the hands ever grasping at the mask descending the lands the crow in a desert world two


hands of the priest chained being pulled through the sand by serpentine vision ever swirling


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