Whence times gone there shoulders two masks lifted by a single head. I am what ye call the phantom of its shadow, who knew no morals nor delicate treats than that I offer. Mine iron is my word; my fate is your sentence. Here, I recite mine own poem that eloquently written describes my views on the state of me:

Lurks, breathes, tricks beguile!
Lo, keys from lungs spree!
Dare a face, God is not.
Whose mud now? Mould him free,
A mind? Think not for bile

In whose grief is music here,
In whose brief state is apart,
Stupor my shadow lest ye stand,
Breathe such heights as those parting
Only for light give entry near,

As power wrung strings on spool,
Who knew better than face himself?
Then step through, reveal him:
Defect the phantom ye call yourself,
Till all I bid is sold for fool.

I call the ghosts of sunken ship,
My name creased in shame,
From this cup an ally & enemy sip,
His hate of me is fame,
Now accepts that whom he lips!

Oh, silly bile; this defect of mind that I call the shores from yond the meagre hopes that goaded dread in unsung thought till us phantoms brew. We’re neither enemy nor ally, we are who you are. In shade. In dark, we disappear. In light, we appear. That they seek the light is thus to seek us, and we shall arrest them there and by night shall free them there. So passes they unto us a forthold of figures, the dreams and the thoughts they never implement. So pass unto us a single tear that wipe words from ink as to value from meaning. So then, if never of us shall appear, then light shall never appear. If so, my dark intent shall be nullified by such; in whose absence of light there is no ally nor enemy but a single shroud of dark that envelopes all the above till one himself, or herself, shall bring to open.

These are the fainted shadows in text, and we raise a mould up in the sky to imprint these words in the world, and so take them as they will so that no shadow weighs heavier than the light; nor peace is found, till peace is sought. Nor trees are grown till the seed is wrought. Let us be that seed and so produce in time the order of that which stands, whether poison or not in produce is given. Then in jest the light is but joke for fools to acquire; then when it is seen this much we shall see. In void of everything else, it only becomes unseen.

Abstract, Prose, Works
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