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Deep in the bowels of the cathedral that is mine soul
Exists a child, purest in its whole
Locked behind a door iron clad with rivets of brass
Thine only place entered, wearing no mask
Darkened, dimly lit corridors and stone ephemeral
Lives truths so lively to eat of them is surely indigestible
Child pure of innocence
Whimsical, lackadaisical with a view of pure interest
Only children could possess
Curled near the heart center of mine broken, impassioned state
Only with the flower of life flaming forth can such two become one, co-create
In the masters chambers
Barbaric beasts slumber, encumbered with woes dreary and dreadful
Behind a drunken passage of memories reminisced with a head full of hindsight
The pathway lead by a blind light
A skeleton key to a chained canvas painted blood red with dry tears
An emotive of lost leviathans, lethargic leeches, scattered morose manifested molecules
A Dorian Gray picturesque in lucid brush strokes envisioning a tortured soul
Eye locked, face gaunt, aghast
Tis’ an eternal bout of energy and entropy forevermore.