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In Flow

Here we sit, we children of the ether,
Born amongst flame, see it I nor neither,

Yet fumbling we reside,
One's own past one decries,
Oh this great most cosmic of schemers.

Wither and then die then.
Feel it no more, rest haute coutoure,
Of Job you dither galore.

The weave is too tight.

Too tight to be clean,
Alright one must seem,
Yet I see evil in your eyes,
And mine too.

Roaming for the philosopher's stone,
We seek,
Weep,
The tree becomes crueler,
The fear,
Wear,
Sheer illusion blinds us,
Enraptured completely,
We dare not beseech thee,
Line upon line.

See-eth the wood for the tree,
Sights likened to thee,
One must open one's eyes.

The stone becomes you,
Manifesting the dew,
At once,
Be born anew.

Come no closer,
She shan't repeat herself.
Grow no bolder,
What was once eleven is twelve.

Cross legged one sits,
Breathing time's echo beside you.
Still it not then, feel it again,
Atlasian dreams astride you.

Moor no more.

Waves cascading at once all around thee,
There, parlay as a dunce due you boundly,
Cloak follows dagger,
Introspective the stagger,
Triggers trauma.

Mind doth bleed, heart nay beat,
The quest is deemed awry,
Yin stays clean, dim't no fiend,
Perchance you learn't to lie.

If only ye knew,
The fruit of the loom
Had ne'er been dashed astray – but you wonder,
Had it been simpler,
The path beaten twice,
Could I have found my way?

At lasting change
And eventful praise
One begins to see,

So much as the truth,
Low it must seek,
The goal ever does recede.

Lullabys lingering at porter side,
Fortified fourtets flowing thus,
Formations coalesce so furtively,
Like clockwork figures stay stoic,
Simmering softly no fallacy.

Extrapolate, extrude, erode once or a few,
Your guide is incumbent at this point
Striding to come for you,
Convergent will attaching like a joint,
God dresses all wounds.

Poetry


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