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There is an awful rhythm as you lie beneath the open prairie sky
Great runaway universe receding in every direction
Stars and galaxies shimmer, blinding us to the cosmic violence
Which beneath the twinkles lie.
And I, flushed by the terrible knowledge of the
Great leveler.
Time, the byproduct of motion making matter, wildly creates of it's own.
As pencil scratches, or notes plucked, becoming something altogether other.
These very things exist only by way of the spaces that lay betwixt and between them.
And only within those wrinkles can I find the absolute, ancient no thing.
The pearl of greatest price, a scourge and blight
Held next to the void, as you enter clear light.
                                                                           D K Noone   /07

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