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A Separation

by Mithya

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1.
- 01:18
2.
Mandala 04:13
From concentric motion comes static construct. Abstract motive. Common nature. We become these bones. A portrait in motion, each day a line connects the soul. An image eternal, each segment divine. Counting game of thirteen and five. Familiar shapes realign. Wheels on wheels spin, give birth time. Ancient action sacred design. Circle us, great shapes, you chosen few recurrent gods. Woven through all matter, all thought, as infinite art. Perceive and grow it's all we know. Envision. Manifest.
3.
Metaphase 04:43
Mark me. Identify. Surviving fragments a body torn. In jigsaw structure, a biotic ensemble. (Separating) If this is who I am,then where is who I was? Dissecting every day. I buried my old claws. Dancing inside of us, daring to breathe. Living, surviving. The infinite- We are canvas. We begin so unoriginal. We sleep in houses wrapped in clothes. We are dying to become- If this is who I am then where is who I was? A thought clings to my side unclean and undeserving Self-assuring sacrifice. Failures ignored are cancer brewing. This portion is rotten, marked and caustic. I must destroy it. Cut it out. Unburdened of our age. The caricatures we see we are growing into. We are canvas. We begin so unoriginal. We sleep in houses wrapped in clothes. We are dying to become whole. If this is who I am then where is who I was?
4.
Ashes 04:57
Eyes slowly open Panicked voices fill the air Another passing consumes like fire. It burns. It rips the heart from soul. Of hallways, stairwells known, there's nothing left to hold. There's nothing left at all. Light nor shadow, soot nor sun, painted pictures are dreams once lingered on. Oh how? Paint us a dove whose feathers fall like ashes. Paint us a dove, let brush take form of a word. Like fire, speak. It burns. It rips the heart from soul. Of hallways, stairwells known, there's nothing left to hold. There's nothing left at all. Won't you paint us a dove? Won't you paint us, exactly as you would. (A storyteller weaves his wings - a tapestry unraveling)
5.
Shapeshifter 04:04
(Rakshasa) Reshape. Reform. Fill these hands with fiberglass memories. Under skin. Fragmented reveries Catalyzed in solitude, a King of lies, by karma ruled. You. A man without a form. Each scripted line contorting, circular. You hide behind a mask of pride in complete disguise, and every face you've ever worn is a twisted farce. You. A man without a form. Each scripted line contorting, circular. You'll never find your soul until you fall shapeshifter. Shapeshift. Don't try to end the plot again. You. A man without a form. Each scripted line contorting, circular. You'll never find your soul. You'll lose it all, shapeshifter. You'll never find you soul. You will never.
6.
Bheda 05:06
Depart. Sew your pointless little lines. I freeze just beyond your reach. Your gaze remains lost on the imaginary. Heavens close themselves to me, I am left only my regrets and your betrayal. Potentially potential-less. No titan grew from embraces missed. Your poetry is lost on me I know not these words of pageantry. Tailored thoughts of shallow mind I no longer care what lay behind. Words like ashes, though sacred sound, soil still when cast to the ground. How could I have known I'd lose my hold so easily? Did my actions lead to yours? As my face pales from what you stole, Crimson words breed curses cold. I pray you die each day alone. It's hard to think... I never thought I'd wish for a cold sweat at sunrise. Now I've seen that our ghosts can haunt, Like memories, endlessly. Soon you'll see these horrid things and beg they cease. They'll never leave, they won't relent. Did my actions lead to yours? As my face pales from what you stole, Crimson words breed curses cold. I pray you die each day alone. Carve a trail to erase the red structures that fell and repeat. Carve a trail to erase the red structures that fell and begin again.
7.
Eyes slowly open Panicked voices fill the air Another passing consumes like fire. It burns. It rips the heart from soul. Of hallways, stairwells known, there's nothing left to hold. There's nothing left at all. Light nor shadow, soot nor sun, painted pictures are dreams once lingered on. Oh how? Paint us a dove whose feathers fall like ashes. Paint us a dove, let brush take form of a word. Like fire, speak. It burns. It rips the heart from soul. Of hallways, stairwells known, there's nothing left to hold. There's nothing left at all. Won't you paint us a dove? Won't you paint us, exactly as you would. (A storyteller weaves his wings - a tapestry unraveling)

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released April 14, 2017

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Mithya Saint Paul, Minnesota

Soaring, groovy, MN grown metal

Lee Mintz
Maxx Vasek
Michael FritzKapps
Zack H.S.

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