| I am not citing my dreams, and I am not accustomed to lie;
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| These visions of past nights in flesh epitomised
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| In flesh yet not mortal, divine yet beyond grace;
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| Oh, these visions of horror shan’t be bestowed a face
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| If only I could make return from where my journals trespassed the line
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| Where shadows turn tangible, and might just slip inside
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| The most desolate of prophecies, spewn out from my own quill
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| Now this sheet a crossing where my poor mind and the unseen ones would meet
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| Spectres of humanity, disincarnate…
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| Remnants of my sanity scattered on membranous wings
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| «From behind the curtain something has indeed entered
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| My nightmares mixed into my wake like some fluid
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| In my room, something constantly watching, unseen but certain
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| I can tell you, from the chill that went down my spine
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| Something’s there…
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| Should I be able to break free from these chambers
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| I could never break free of these demonic memoirs
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| And eventually my soul, my spirit and my love
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| They would eviscerate»
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| I am not citing my dreams, I can only spare you the truth
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| And advise you avoid me and the demons in my room |