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White Paint

the shadow of self stares into the moving stream as the self


stands behind the gate in the forest of epiphany, the shadow


returns to the self of the same and burns away whats left of


the remains, tearing down the gate, the tree of the stave


that grows up from the stone, the forest is still beautiful, yes


though the world itself is left alone, though the world itself


is at large the earth, though the earth itself carries the


weight of the world, though the nature and the being of


nature shall lose what is left of life, though the life of nature


shall then become the world, though the world shall conquer


the earth, though the earth shall disappear, yes, the forest


the forest is still beautiful, and although it is not burning, and


although the stream still moves me, as a leaf does move through


the wind, as a sand grain falls encapsulated, acceptance of death


the burning forest is my home, and although a frozen stream


is known to move beneath the ice of all the ages, to all appearances


it looks to me to be a way out, though, as it is, i shall never leave


catches, it does, the mid air leaf still falling, attached to the spider's


silky thread, blow in the wind it does, and releases the skulls from


at each point of discourse in the conscripted web, of spiders, and


each skull falls, as dew drop falls, once suspended upon the grass


into the ground the dew drops fall, and as the skulls fall, they crack

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