All that glitters is gold,
But that grows trite and old.
So then our hallowed eyes,
Descend the starry skies,
Convey the highs and bys,
Sifting from truth, the lies.
And less the wise I'm told,
We pass the bread, for mold.
"Only when there's nothing left to look at, do we see with clear eyes." -Aryis Wharhem Lanceon
"On its own, good art
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