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the sorcerer

3 June 2010

darkness like a thick velvet blanket
covers over the soul of the sorcerer
working with words and sounds like words
in hopeless displays of his own power;
little by little, hour by hour,
his universal discrepancies pile on
like copper leaves on autumn lawns
where silent serpents seek to devour
each present moment–no shields or swords
to resist or with which to fight,
nothing but the present darkness of the night
full of terrors, and his many errors
thread needles of despair
with yarns of anger and malaise.
so it goes on, days leading to longer days,
and all the older ways, leading to escape,
are forgotten and ignored
from long disuse.

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