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Whispered words these walls breathe the inanity of accusation |
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And a moment of gifting passes through what once was identity |
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In a movement beyond truth and falsity I can sense them in the mountains |
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On either side of every side |
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Basking in the seething sun this flesh conjures the infinite mind |
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While well worn pillars of objectivity collapse as if blown asunder |
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By the blameless pawns of poets ecstatically exhuming treasures of forgotten grace |
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The in-betweens surpassing their localities this grey disease reproducing |
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The weapons forever unleashed stockpiled with lies of every kind |
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There is a season a time to die |
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And the word games end as the clock thunders by and the rain sears this pain |
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As my streams keep running dry |