Now let me invite our guests, to the chest of the first chamber, he doth invest his spine and neck; suitable for a stranger– yet he looked perplexed, at what he heard next, the lure of a song from an old lantern, upon a cold latter, climbed to the attic where the tragic had hit; and that lightning stuck his core.

Whatever was that for? He felt like his chest ripped open; whatever was that four; and she pulled out a key as old as me, and open the chest in the hollows of the anger; I would look her in the eye, and ask her what made her, and that I had long ago offered fruit I had prospered; but that I would throw her upon my being that didn’t come until I lost her– stranger with two chest he couldn’t have honored–

The mind is of light, and the light is of mind; but something doesn’t fit. Act one, who speaks?

The tongue of the man, who was not so familiar, licked its lips and was the only thing allowed past– inside a round table, with the corners upon the axis like a compass, and four chairs upon the mid-way points, with table only set for two– And he sat alone waiting on six– and this tongue was confused, and left the room with his scowling face infused–

The heart is the word that is best used if we knew that two tear drops, had two tears as in torn, and torn, and stop; but that pumps, pumps to a roar– beats until it bleeds, but cannot scream no more.

ACT TWO. who the hell listens.

The fourth chamber is breached, but avoided; like we got in, but passed through it without noticing we had anointed, one we had not counted; so that without counting it was expressed, but expressed as that around it– A child is heard; who would bring that into this place, and displaced; the wind breaks, and ten snakes curled around the child he realized was his grace, his pace, all around his face lit up like he hath should not have brought him. Cuz a stranger is not worth the goblin.

And the little way that use to walk in a big way, makes his day look longer; and the senseless world too much more to the senses; and this jaded man in a child’s voice, just screams to god to end this. Hath not left enough symbolism of the heart, I know not the way of my own blood– and it would leave a stain that would fade only a bit after a wash.

Symbols, symbols, point thy rod to heaven; anoint the god, two left when; it culminated between the lips of an ancient rite of passage; emerges the tree of frozen light struck, and polished as passed off as average; and my phallic symbol refers to what I don’t understand of the tongue, so the one whom is my ring, is not the one who has rung, and the haze passes through my right nostril to my step upon the rug. Can you imagine what I refer to!? I DOTH REVEAL SWEET NOTHINGS IN YOUR EAR, UNTIL THE WARRIOR WITH HIS POINTED WEAPON, DO LOFTY LIKE LIFTS, LASTING LONG IN LINGER LEAVING LAST LUNGS LOOT LAYING LOOKING LEFT AND LEARY, AS THE LIGHT DRIFTS UPON YOUR FATAL SKELETONS.

and she invited a stranger into her temple, and I wondered the nature of the of prophetic prostitutes; and she told me to call her a whore and slap her in the face; and she lay herself upon me, and my rage rises through her face; but that my face turn red with mad dashing thoughts twisting upon itself, and that this dream would inspire me before I had dreamt it, like who I am and who I dream. Is the equivalent of being pregnant, by my spirit know perfection, before I had perfection intended?

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