what does it take to fly out of one's mind,
break free from the confines of too sane thoughts that
had revolved for so long around you--your mere existence
anchoring pieces of stained glass memories of
a past otherwise diluted in dark liquid Pain.
Pain, so i've learned,
begets the indomitable consciousness of the soul,
no matter how broken and scattered it is by directional default.
how curse i the lips that set free the words
weaving the jist of all enamored tales
spun under the softest most wicked smiles of the moon,
when mine own tongue too is grown
in the welling fullness of the heart?
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