gilded gates rooted into obsidian,

boulders rich with crystalline dust,

It takes many forms

yet forever exists in what

crude sliver it has cut for itself



red book Blue book purple book. Black

go the spots as they float

over my eye–

fifteen rows deep three floors tall

five rows often across

It is a gateway seldom explored



ice moves into place,

pulled forth–

from stagnant existence

into the tumult of life



Verdant flames kindled from

the spit of Its youth,

it seeks balance though such is

a reprieve not yet earned.


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