The mind points out it’s own precision The pen tip presses upon the page The blank sheets are washed and dried as bleeding crimes in tangled lines Are hung to dry with dripping rage
The mind draws lines with its own decisions The desperate drama of dreams debate The Carpet rolls out the curtains rise The Callosum opens its Myelin eyes As actors weave axioms upon the stage
The mind circles round its own confusion The neural nodes nap within the cage The fasciculus finds and hooks the hive The fissure formed from space and time Is stitched to heal with macrophage….
….the ritual bell, the wafting smell of Burning sages in prizm cells, Hanging from the dangling nous, The heart bares scars from tearing youth From the of searing truth of heaven and hell…