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By Pagan Hands

Break; break from the preachers of despair,
join the liquidations of masses that travel
electric around space, chiming in unison about
lost quatrains. Their spiritual urgency created
by a primordial light where sanctuaries of prophesies
linger in spirals of white, Sabbath moon, tree of life.

Break; break from the remorse of dawn, the stain
of guilt that makes clock hands stick with savage servility
behind star drifts of forgotten connections. You’re my
beautiful ransom in this bubble of metaphysics that
makes my heart beat faster and faster with the simple
devotion of your manic passion.

Break; break from those that hate, slithering as eels,
inside the grief of your soul. Dance! Dance upon the
pseudo rhetoric of their squall heads as you weep
for violets and blue forget-me-nots. There’s a river that
ebbs and flows beneath the gangrene of your feet.
Let Earth rain as a soft voice calls you from afar.

A Wicca hand is typing these lines, waiting for your eyes
to take on the journey!