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A high aeon of burning galaxies
A demon unknown, stillborn
Expel it, of it’s fake existence
Your excuse of a cross, crescent or five point star
Convergence of light they never had
Of darkness, Of time
Remote past, a distant future
Lucid dreams and terrors
Treasure your nemesis for a friend
To Speak aloud from a dead speaker
Never saved another
A truth, A lie
All things, In mind, Are mind
Just being
Are…

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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