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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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