I close my eyes and all I see
is twisted wood
what does it mean you ask
I shrug in my black hood
who can search out the meaning
of the metaphors
that condense on the portholes
of perception's pressure doors
I had a dream I was
back in the old shop
Where I used to cook up beats
and engineer the drop
and oh man that brew
felt just like twisted wood
Still stumped me but back then
mystery still felt good
what
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