There is a pink room at the edge of dawn
blooming stargazer horizon rupture from
land to light.
In the red room is secret.
Sacrosanct in space-time apart.
There is a jar
I'll prepare. Bone.
You shake. Bone jar.
This is the way of
becoming.
They're showing it now.
There is a reason to read a grimoire or
two.
They hold the human/spirit story.
And there is reason for ritual.
Clearing space in
time.
Then art enters.
The spirits speak in strange tongue
of oblique edges. I remember a sun set.
Texas. At Rrose Amarillo. It's a time one
should listen to. Horizon.
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