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The Epitome Begets An Illusion

The force is erupting another deified element.
A calm walkabout that's gathering the fully intent.
The realm you seek is forward down the left hand path.
To each his own, by this  trickery of faith and Holy wrath.
Devoured by the misunderstanding, and  directed by the multiple guises.
Cast down beside the blind, by a God whom craft  demoralizes.
Ready to be the unforgotten besides the unholy moral compass is always true.
As the universe is constantly watching, of which belief do you truly  ensue?
Can it be possible that it's all been a clamitity of a fully misinformed course?
With an open mind to  believe, you must abandon  to completely  question it's  source.
By my name is a casting of a runic force.
Bludgeoned by blunt words, provoked with their prayers, another exorcised possession.
Consider the exorcism to be the invoking of demons directly into human form from a demonic dimension

15 Nov 17

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(1 more poem by this author)

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