Vanity is no worse curse than self-deprecation,
Whats the point in doing if you loose all hope in trying?
Bare the heavy ray upon your back, wayed through,
Vaporous humidity will stand underneath you.
Untill the morning falls on, dew
The heavy moor breathes, roar
Across the windy hills, Knew
What waits through this door?
Eaten by the time that waits,
Beaten in the fights for rights,
Neatened by that cosy fence,
Fastened under my lords Henge.
Built on sin, beyond that crooked temple,
Waits the shore that bore no din.
Open up the gates of sound,
Where any word can be found.
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