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Turmoil


Turmoil

I am the Master of the Painted World
In that State of Time of Pleasant Dreams
Where consciousness floats on ether pillows
And nothing seen in there is as it seems.
From one eye, screwed against the light,
I see the road wind into the receding past

While with the other, opened full and wide
I see the same road wind on until at last,
Against all apparent schools of thought,
It disappears abruptly into myopic haze
Where stands, I believe through faith,
The Crossroads of The Myriad Ways,

At the end of all beginnings
And the beginning of all ends;
Where entropy flows wild
And each eye takes and bends
The distorted flow of wild
And multicoloured light

That vies with the darkness
Of endlessly long non night,
Creation of Master of the Painted World,
And it's State of Time of Pleasant Dreams,
Where consciousness floats on ether pillows
And nothing seen in there is as it seems







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