Inner

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The days do cut my eyes away

and take my breath for an honest day.

They save it for a long time when,

the flowers die and the night is spent.

And when they pierce my ears with Merlin’s drum

a magical lie,

the sorcerers gun,

I will not let my wrists be bound,

cut to the bone,

thrust to the ground.

Stand I will,

against the floods of mind.

The cloudy little whispers

in the cloud of Satan’s shrine.

And the night does dwell on a dose of rum,

the secret cure to a poison sun.

For the day has wrought its dirty deeds,

and given life to blackened seeds.

And what trees they become,

I cannot say,

for my eyes must turn and look away.

And when butterflies dance on a broken dawn

and the light has scattered into streams of orange

the sun will sob until it’s final cries have set

and the moon will laugh the night away……

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