| He crouches on the floor, there’s a mask on the wall.
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| And he leafs, through the pages of a book.
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| But wait as he may in the shadow of other leaves.
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| His heart, in embraces to times long since scorched.
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| The horizont folds over, with a purpose sun rise.
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| And the wind, carry smoke, from a earth that is burning.
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| The smoke clogs in his hair, and he’s covered with patterns.
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| And a decent, of life trees, on his camouflaged soul.
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| With a winter of memories, carved ponder bone white.
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| Beyond his sculls for, a scorpion lies.
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| In the crunch of the snow, as his darkness increases.
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| A twilight of ice, encircles his teeth.
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| This is a song for Douglas, after he’s dead.
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| This is a song for Douglas, his mercury dances.
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| There’s a swastika carved, in the palm of his hand.
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| There’s a crooked cross, that is caught in his eyes.
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| There waits a falling sun, in his mind.
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| There’s the honor, of violence, on his lips.
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| His father waits for him, at the towers of silence.
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| Where they worship the fires, so long ago cringed.
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| But the two will oh trees, with el has inverted.
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| The fork of life snapped.
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| They are father and son.
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| So mingling dust, as if life itself, had been mostly illusion.
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| But parchly real.
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| And parchly pain.
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| And over some wall, if you look through rebels.
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| Amongst ruins of churches, where life conquers death.
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| Thou empires can not last, where blood and concepts.
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| The folted and failed.
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| A cloud still sow his teeth.
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| As the world disappears.
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| This is a song for Douglas, after he’s dead.
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| This is a song for my Douglas, his mercury dances. |