September 8, 2009
Follow my mind,
through these cryptic signs,
as we fall to ash,
we keep our angels close,
as Necropolis is death,
a kingdom and key,
whose life has no fault,
but to fall to blistered sun,
in unmatched revolution,
of the damned,
to follow an enigma,
to an innascible beginning,
in a world whose future is ingravescent,
to kill the panpsychist who rest,
in a world of pantophobia,
to keep in check, our pleionosis,
and in turn,
end with our people,
infected with scopophobia,
the final assault,
of the sicarian.

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