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Post by shashmara on Feb 20, 2008 3:06:14 GMT -5
I posted these on a friends site (after she'd put up one of her own) under the name Rummage.
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The shapes of heaven are spun in the stars The woven wonders of life in our galaxy and in theirs' A patchwork quilt of all that is Infinite collaberation of being that gives us being
We the weavers shape the stars
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Crimes on paper World at War fire from crime can make itself disappear To believe only what we see is to be blind Apparitions of truth materialise and fade we are still here in this World at War Smoke-screens illude us to who we are Smoke from the burning of crimes
Let all countenances be known as it is hard to hide a singed butt there for all to see and believe
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Post by shashmara on Feb 20, 2008 3:09:27 GMT -5
Fastidious chaos as seen in the mind's eye, the precious turmoils of life Fate grants a reprieve, but only at a cost, such is the paradox The only way out of how we see ourselves, is to truely see ourselves Our greatest trap we have designed
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Rejoice my mind has returned but stayed and fleeting betwixt the caverns of deep sleep for which it was bought, to steal my vitality. In crazy waves they come, one then the other but mostly the turgid depths of unconciousness. My joy has turned to confused grief from seeing the choices I've made. Mind or body, body or mind??
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Horizon, bend at my will that I may seek my solitude in unknown streets and voices.
Intentions thwarted noxiously, yet brings my deliverance into the pain I embrace.
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Post by shashmara on Feb 20, 2008 3:13:11 GMT -5
Scars of tomorrow are felt today, as if to behold them in hopes to learn from sins not yet done.
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Words crawl through my mind like spiders searching for flesh on which to feed. Non-sensical phrases as they scatter and meet hijack my synapses and assert conciousness. Rhetorical freedom or madness of infestation expressed? I claw to eat my own face.
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Well designed influences subvert my will. "Tou che", though my conscious mind folds a deeper knowledge comes to the fore, recognising constructed truths for the hoax they are, relinquishing me from imposed barricades and allowing new thought and understanding to form. For the first time I hold my own creation of self.
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A myriad of colours greet my eyes, in a stone awash with grey Light plays to serve pleasure A plethera of emotions does spring to my mind and chest
Uncommonly twists a cherry-blossom tree, that I love, leaning as though to be with me, makes me cry.
From the world springs holograms to challenge our reality, our definitive selves, and to bring us home.
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Post by shashmara on Feb 20, 2008 3:17:08 GMT -5
(for Traci & Amelia)
A scarab beetle scuttles around my finger encompassing it with ancient footprints. The shallows of my breath become haunted with curios from worlds long gone. The frame of my existence is now penetrated by stories of Pharohs and jackal gods, to at last find their afterlife...inside of me.
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NO WAY OUT Stuck on a round-a-bout Dark jagged stone for the ground, emitting a menacing glow Rain pelting, large & relentless. Lights glint along the smooth road leading home ...all too remotely. Huge branches & remnants of boards litter the way between ...a hopeless tell of fate. Horror. There is no sound; yet the air screams & snarls right into your mind. Welcome to Black Dog's round-a-bout.
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