Degenerate Titles

Coming in waves are the major
Sources of tranquility
The self is possessed by items
Unlocking bastard doors through the web

Sixteen I saw bound by a riddle
But then I appeared
And it all became clear

Sixteen I saw
Damned by their spoken words
Giving up their prized possessions
Giving it up and covering their heads

These fifteen they were hoarded
Golden fingers between
Figuring selflessly the pain
Bound to a rythm

These wild gory places
Seemingly out of touch
But not undercover
Not despised by a fool

Certainly several items became clear
The word a hustler like the sixteen
Several worlds were connected
Not one found a way through

Seemingly callous bastards
Thrown by hustler too late
Seemingly out of control
But not all too late

Sixteen I saw of these men
Climbing with a rythm
But then obscured by a dream
Listening tightly to the stream

Consciousness unregarded
Seemingly callous
But torn apart
By all too late

Seemingly obscured by the charisma
But then again unknowing
Hoarded through a clift
Like the one to possess

Gifted without bounds
Heralding the slow ascent
Out of the world
Into the pit

Seemingly without obscured faces
But then always known
To a faithful few
Sensing danger but is not ready

Danger appears beyond the sight
But then it will be known
When known it will transcend
Out of the world

These distant beings
Like the unstoppable
Seem joyful yet unavoided
Distant and seen in a mirror

About Emil Hjort

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