Poeta

Original Art by Harry Edgar Palacio

Straight. The black brew does not dally nor play bad darts. It reaches the inner cortex She whispers in my ear over and over. Through my brain, I rest defeated. An accumulation of words from the collective mass brings me to a dead-end. I am immersing myself into the collective consciousness. Is it my mental delusions or has the universe opened my eyes? I was blindsided. I grapple with the context of reality. Split mind. They called us prophets, once. Now lunatics. The doors of perception are seemingly easy for me to rifle through. Yet, at times, the burden is an overwhelming weight of dark days and heavy despair.

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