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Walk Creature

how many people have made it to the door at the end of the hall

how many people have knocked, twice on the doorframe, twice

on the lock, the hands clap in front of the face, the shooting star

shoots across, the nail thrown thru the standing glass plate and

into the telephone pole outside, stuck in place, holding up the

sign that states, home is somewhere buried beneath the floor

stay far, far, away neck deep into another story another blade to

hold, hold, the rope it threads the missing hidden end through

the keyhole descending into the primeval labyrinth once the soul

set free who would have thought just to knock and the door of the

sanctuary still bolted closed falls through and through the vaulted

rope swinging as the pendulum revolves in motions swirl like oceans

pull and calling vision, unto the voices, calling through and through

the labyrinth children running in the halls deeper from the veiled frost

the unknown artist the paint drips from her claws the reflection gone

of the mirrored vast and further down the snake coiling introductions

lavish whirling roses petals all drifting changed leaves, once full of life

to die, and float headlong down the calming stream, Prometheus still

chained to the stone breathes again the firey breath, to burn within

to press the mask with dirt worn skin she holds a face held electric

lifts from the stage the dripping shadow and drops continuously fall

onto the soul, whom in spirit, has never left the weight of the world

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