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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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