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 Grandeur Of Melancholy

Crossfires


Termination meets laceration.
Cold is also warm.
Substances beyond elemental.
Organic combustible regeneration.

Oceans apart.
Steel irrelevant.

Death is disguised
little to minds.

A victim of time.
Space is dead and gone.
Nowhere in our way.
Have to play make believe.

On my home, in the dark
I see a UFO cross my path,
it must have known my tracks
waited to show itself and inopportune
venture curiously like teasing the human
being.

Grave is the sort of
folk you know, but many
of many- they as they go.
Pay many homages to the
people who rarely slow.

They rarely have any to
show but maybe I don't have
enough to crave.

And gambit as one goes.
Never ending story writing
adventure and dull.

A history built of
sticks of bones.

Against the stars,
over blanket the simmering
seas no most grave.

The blood filled the
earth, made it all the
worth.

The world is in the creator.
And in the eyes of the creation
is the world.
The smoke, and the embers.

The utopia high or below.
An unknown too far.

A systematic council.
A history of your gasses.
A history of cold fountains
smiling.
Oceans apart.
Metals given through
our progress so deep.







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