52 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
52 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
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NotebookOne.Fifteen.Untitled
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by j z provo
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7 aug 88
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But the Ghost is the tiny thing...
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Dripping thru the perceptual seive,
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like images of future lives laughing
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in spite of _their_ predicament.
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Dare we jump the chasm of
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Belief? And run headlong into
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the land of the Walking Dead;
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mud-plastered faces
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mock our Emptyness
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with their own
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Witless Eyes.
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What dummy-like lives!
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They erupt from the soil
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-free!-
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only to burden themSelves
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with the Useful
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Odds and Ends.
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Better to plummet,
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screaming like a Mad Ape
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Into the bottomless Abyss
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of Life-in-life.
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Soaring ever lower,
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Our thoughts twist
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and turn
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As our perceptions Shatter
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into the stark blades of Reality.
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They follow the patterns of our thoughts.
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The Walking Dead shriek hysterically,
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for their blades of Perception
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carve out their reality;
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Just as We carve them up!
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Our neverending Battle comess to a close.
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The Victor?
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...the metal of Perception is tempered
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at a lesser heat than that of Reality...
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