My head spins at the thought of the past.
It seems someday has come.
A stray from the flow of the path,
some chapters go on for too long.
You may rip the pages from the book,
manic resonation in your head.
Some people read the last page first,
but still want to know what they haven't read.
I always know how they end,
but I never see where they begin.
I've written the first line,
riding the coat tail of despair.
I'm hoping I have said for the last time,
"I just don’t care"
Salvation cultured in destruction,
new ways carved into sand.
Rebirth in a bath of poison
pray for the death of modern man.
The chapters are gone,
all the pages are white.
The books are all blank,
but no one knows how to write
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