It is the sealed cell with the white, padded walls.
It is inverse, backwards, ties thoughts into knots.
It is demoralizing.
It is archaic.
It is hopeless.
It confines you. It presses in and steals your air.
It is a typhoon of paradox and contradiction.
It is the place where dark means death. Lord,
It is the place where light means life. Clarity,
Followed by a sigh, says goodbye. Light
Trickles into the room. Its rays Illuminate.
Realization reaches out, pries Open your eyes,
Slaps you across the face And calls itself your god.
Only then, after the Embrace of surreal truth
Surrenders your Senses to the secondary
world around You, will the room reveal itself.
It is a sweet nothing you whisper to yourself.
It is mayhem: madness bottled up and released in controlled doses.
It is Pandora’s box, and you’ve spilled its contents.
It is Mud, the bastard child of endless sea and shifting sands.
It is poetry.
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