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Perfect calm, perfect anger,
the meaning of being,
inverting all that can combine,
into the infinite spiral,
who gives a desolate pillow
to the void.

Two imagined hands,
cup oceans between barricades, of dirt.
The universe is tilting,
and the concept of seeing,
believes in and of itself,
puts minds on an insect level.

Hunt, follow, believe,
Faith, the reverse compass,
always pointing inward.
The guide is self fulfilling,
and always has a plan.

The words are not the picture,
this place is not the plot.
Dreamlike trances walk hot-coals,
in the quest for sorrow beyond,
your own, miracle life-style.

The zen of everything, is chaos,
The contradiction of the eye,
Is the souls feeling of otherwise,
logic denies, fear confirms.

The instant constant black,
Is instantly, constantly, there,
dark like an angels eye.
Staring dispassionately at evening.

This is not your reason to exist,
This is the reason you do not.

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