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Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Unraveling of the sarcophagus with the golden death mask: revelation.
Pushed forward by tides shrouded in dark deceit; an epoch draws nigh
See! That stallion indomitable -
looking back in rue even as the Earth is swept from beneath him: despair.



Toeing at the brink of a chasm
Choices? Laid bare.
Suppress, yes yes! The fiendish one with a soft warm glow,
then back into the tides of dark deceit. To what end?
Grief awaits. Grief, dressed in angelic raiment.
Or sit, amidst clairvoyance - and with hope and salvation
trying in vain to reach beyond the fortress;
a fortress put up with wanting that very same end,
a fortress, crafted unwittingly from that shroud of deceit.

Gripped by an intense fear of undoing all that's been done,
a choking desperation.
Help?
Alas, not at the brink.
Darkness comes.


Wenky
6:39 PM
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