Hello

I hate to use this imagery, but without it I’m like a voice without symmetry.
And though I hate to admit, at times I’ve come to slip
And though gradual is my corrosion, I will not wait until my implosion
So again the imagery is incidental, though implications maybe unmistakable
For in my years I’ve understood the plight of poets and painters
And have seen the reflection, what is missing and what is dead,
What is closed and what should never be open and the greatness that dweels in murky places and inhibits the shallow depth in consciousness and dream
And I saw myself lapping the waters, whose colors were spectrums beyond human perception
And I saw my reflection, what is missing and what is dead, so that the waters stirred inside me and I saw what I dear not see
For as the painter misses his third eye, I am a beast missing his third head.
And in the greatness of my terror, I saw the beginning of my barrier and the end of my resolve, yet the birth of my rage
Cause what is thought dead even it has yet to truly die

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