The Echo Flaw

Location:

Hand of the Dead Lyrist

Phenotype:

Unknowable

I. Oh turmoil oh such dark beings that run wild, oh the heartless scarred one whose singing grace, whose blue-gold scythe takes from one all that it had, takes from one the mind that slept enrapt and the body that brought the flower to the percipice of fathomless abysms and set it free on the upsurging wind, the wind that all knew was coming but for fear held back, held back in agonizing and divine turmoil and still now craves it even as it takes from one from one from one its gaze withdrawn its heart shuttered red lines made crisscross at the skull’s apex stringing an architecture of mirrors over one’s face so that its light may never impregnate again the sullen mind, never lay latticework hand upon the body, never chisel with a dreamy after thought the leylines upon the arm

II. The flaw, thou hast never incorporated the flaw, pressed your hand full-on into its undulating warmth, known the jilted suffusion of chords that resonate within it flowing into your body. The flaw was the first, the entire disjunct ediface flows from the union of the thing itself and the flaw, like a knifeblade severs the breath that is the soul from the pendulous weight of the form you shufflingly inhabit. There is nothing without the flaw, you seek it with the subconscious fingers of