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Of things, of nothing

I heard the call of distant disaster...

The days have streamed by now as in a haze. Time has made it so. Shadows were the way once. By their height and their wanderings, people knew, they felt, the passing of days. It was not time once. Time never was but always is. Escape. Uproot. Words spoken long forgotten. How you wish you were there. The chime of the clock and the stabbing of the spear. The flow of water from all that we hold dear. Blasphemy. Death. Resurrection. And death again. Constantly consuming without regard. When we wonder upon the wasteless earth, the supple fruit of its beauty, all trodden under our own ambition. Thought. Idea. They make it so. We wonder without recognition of things holy. Cocks and tits. There is the rub. The wishes and the wells of humanity. Caught between the sweat and the moans of all glories and deceit. Wanting pleasure, a fleeting thing. One that slips between our fingers like memories. Sawdust. A cross cut down falls in the city, no one hears it. A man sits in his bathroom. Tub half full of milky water. Rubbing himself with the dollar bills that have fallen from the sky. He trails off and drowns in his own want. Erection long lasting after his death. Flipping through dictionaries. Words have died. They pass away, dead in dead sentences. Letters once proud now die with our utterance. All color disappear The river of the weeping will drown child of corruption. Long desks. Black and glass. Hard. Strait. A knocking on the glass. The buildings fall. We forget, The tit of liberty, its solidifying mead, for the cock of tyranny. The sun does not rise with his calling. Night. Children laugh. Old men die. Woman want. Men conceive. All-father bring death quickly. Godless gods roaming fiery streets at dawn looking for a happy fix. Spring has come. Rains. Rain. Rain. Incessantly remembering. A million droplets of reflection pools on our doorstep and in our minds. Malice like oil drips and spreads. From they sky. The milky water, not the mead. The dead man stares. His brought this here. Death. All-father save those who do not believe. Forgotten landscapes have we wondered from. The passing. The reaping. The conception. Life is born out of man's cycle, not his own, but a manifestation of something solid. Or perceived. Calling books on library tables. Mouths of white and teeth of black. Whisper the worlds dead without eyes or mind or both. Can you grasp. Take the dashes of our past. Where the hand of our worship tells us when to die.

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