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Bring me forth           from that nightflow magnet for I     have heard the calls of my guardians they have beckoned                  me into a visionary stupor pulled my head from the            quicksand's mulch my daily chores whirling                          from my hands              they are spinning me around like a an electric charged                    whirlpool of light all objects caught up in its path              be they leaves                               or rocks or household appliances and I am casting to hell and highwater             all of those warnings as sacred adorations nick into my solitude I fling my demons to the skies           release them to their                               own salvation I do not wish them before                             my eyes as I work my own deliverance of beatitudes    my own song of songs spun into the glowing Let them sputter and trip over their words            My inner hearing closes upon their petty phrases as they mouth them out of sync              The path opens up before me                as riverflow                        in one graceful arc Here I fight in my own                siege of Orléans No point in stopping me because the vestige of flickering truth is turning into the solid molecules                     of freedom's spark right before              your very eyes
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May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
Vision
Bring me forth           from that nightflow magnet for I     have heard the calls of my guardians they have beckoned                  me into a visionary stupor pulled my head from the            quicksand's mulch my daily chores whirling                          from my hands              they are spinning me around like a an electric charged                    whirlpool of light all objects caught up in its path              be they leaves                               or rocks or household appliances and I am casting to hell and highwater             all of those warnings as sacred adorations nick into my solitude I fling my demons to the skies           release them to their                               own salvation I do not wish them before                             my eyes as I work my own deliverance of beatitudes    my own song of songs spun into the glowing Let them sputter and trip over their words            My inner hearing closes upon their petty phrases as they mouth them out of sync              The path opens up before me                as riverflow                        in one graceful arc Here I fight in my own                siege of Orléans No point in stopping me because the vestige of flickering truth is turning into the solid molecules                     of freedom's spark right before              your very eyes
One of my favorite paintings https://search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?hspart=iba&hsimp;=yhs-1&type;=rmnt_5129_CRW_IL&p;=painting+Joan+of+arc
lora-lee
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May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
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