As I drew the Philosophical Tree,
Darkness swarmed around me,
And I knew a new Line,
And owned a new pen,
Possessing a new sense of myself,
Realising how I had came to be.
I knew how matter had been constructed—
How it conformed when freed from its shackles,
Designed to be unburdened by reality.

Scattered across dawn: fragments of the Emerald Green;
Pictures of a distant past in which I would sit with my rancid team.
My merry band of wandering schemes,
Whose ****** would evade the law with ease;
And we would lynch ******* there—
Their screams would linger in the stagnant air.

Now I do not miss the Emerald Green—
Where I would sit with my noble team—
I fantasise about the Line now,
And how I can make amends for my violent dreams.

What we learnt from the Masks:
What we did with our freedom:
What we saw when we took up the pen.

Shall we learn what we had learnt once again?
I don't think I could stand another night
Locked inside the shadows of Earth-den.

Subsequently, the Masks coiled around us,
And we set down our penmanship in the shade.
They beckoned us to sing, once again.

Enshrouded by youth, the chorus became eclipsed,
And echoes resounded in the several heads of the Six.
Repeated— but not without truth— the Six became eight,
Divided, corresponding with the Evangelical Fruit.
Subsequently, nine became seven and seven became nine.
Three subtracted by four was six, separated by the fourteenth whole,
Coordinated, containing remnants of the fifth.
Seven heads and seven necks multiplied by six;
This created eighty-four marriages of the Sevenfold Betwixt.
Suffice to say, two preceded one, followed by the Heavenly Body.

Crawling sickness becomes coagulated insectoid writhing within hive-mind funnels,
Constructing ambivalent torture of humanity merging together,
Congregating the organs amidst shadows of arachnid dread.

Instigation copulation with the father of crawling dread;
He who copulated with the remnants of the Godhead and penetrated cybernetic robotnoid.
Robotnoid:
He who rises from silk-woven robotnoid— crawling robotnoid.

When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.

He was a rigid sculpture of a man.
It was a funny.
He was bulbous and flabby with latent homosexuality.
All his futures and philosophies manifested as a crude, orb-like nose.
It all feels like a big humour-funny-jaunt to him now.
It still feels like a funny.

Behind him there was a gleaming sun.
His eyes did not point in the right direction and were bulbous.
He had no fingers, only palms.
His eyes bulged and did not point in the right direction.
Horizontally, a sun rose from his back like a window into a grey and distant past.

God has drawn another Line.
It is the end at the beginning—
Of course, it was not commissioned to be one.
It did not start as one,
But has always been whole.
It was not drawn by a single hand;
It was drawn by many.

The Line, conceived to be darker than shadow,
Had subconsciously been crossed and over-wrought.
So we simply let it be;
Simply kept it separate— separate.

Guidance from God:
"Go now, go now, and connect the lines.
Go now, go now, and make contact with Ditko,
He who once dwelled within the highrises."