Thus Spake By Anson Clark The words of the mage Inhaled, seeped into the blood. Sweated out of the skin. Roughly-strewn mingle of nostalgia, hopes, And dreams; jumbled flotsam Like the content of the woman’s home Bobbing on the surface of the flood waters, Gushing over the banks of the sorrow gnawed River. Words which catch out flaws. Possessed by a trap. Go back, it’s a trap. Possessed by a trap, It’s a flowery trick. Your body shaking, it’s a trap. The Magician stood there on the mountain top bellowing, “I’ll do my best to keep the vampires at bay. I’ll do my best to generate light from the movement Of darkness to darkness. I’ll hold the keys to heaven And hell, which clash together like slabs of steel. I’ll exclaim love in the minefield of darkness. Where there is an absence of light, I will strike a Match and my love will explode.” Possessed by a trap. Go back, it’s a trap. Possessed by a trap, It’s a flowery trick. Your body shaking, it’s a trap. The group of anchored wanderers below Gasped for air, astonished, seemingly purified. “The flower used to be perfect, it will be perfect Again in the future… but it is debased now”, the Conjurer proclaimed. Possessed by a trap. Go back, it’s a trap. Possessed by a trap, It’s a flowery trick. Your body shaking, it’s a trap. And then a lone dissenter whispered, “But the flower I see before me now is perfect. I’m sure of it. Alas, the magus is possessed by far better words.” The shiniest words limber on the tips of flames. His story’s trap.
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