UNSCRIPTED

Having denied Self and set aside Truth–a fruitless effort–to exist in a world that directs paths according to ‘it’s’ tenants– Wake (!) from weary wasteful sleep where time seems to dwell–Long days, and hours, and years, resting in such separated solitude as to elude the denial of pursuits of freedom–remembrances of sanity.  Now.  Awake.  Truth of being gives voice, and sings it’s forgotten songs– deep and joyous (Love)–None could see (less) except such visage; and, in fact, leave no favored or ill mark on it at all.

“I dwell in my own illusions and I love my creations”

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