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 Grandeur Of Melancholy

Quasi Nephilim

Cross stitched lips sewn.
The harrowing eyes blind.
Is how you view the dark skies.
In the beautiful scope of narrow slant.

How can you decode 
from the later:

The crux of his hands
a inhuman slime,
a hex of infamy nay his life.

If only, perhaps a message go awry.

What is left to say in midst.
Looking to find.

Trying to confuse…
How can you know…

Needle point his eyes are sewn,
with precise hand gentle sway of master
craftsman; the quasi nephilim.

Let loose all his creations
in a pool, ever deviations

in dead dream thoughts.

Let lone, what you keep
as your own.
Now let it go.

Silent he walks without his.
He is gigantic, mechanical in all parts, and sand
pours out of his mouth.

He harrows what has become of his own...
worries about these tragedies of the heart,
what come to those.

He is alive, 
his being his very life.
Let loose what he really believes in....

They call him...as if valentine, a gunman
gone away without a name.
As if silently could stalk a prey could
mean nothing at all...then why do you?

They call him by his code, the iron his side,
back swing of hide horse's hide.

As a Quasi
to ride the
waves of yesterdays 
hellos until they goodbyes.

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