the ghostlike image in front of me in the mirror, insubstantial and nocturnal, wishing it were clearer, a spiritual clinic, the cosmic physics of the turbulent mind of a cynic, exacting notions, mystical potions empty from regarded postmen, the sanctimony of motion, dull routines refract moonbeams sitting still on the ocean, spaceless through time and void, destroying my choice or will to live and voice my spirit with poise, uncover the ploy, the noise boring the lost souls, without control for their own mourning through crossroads, a forced load, a burden, yearning to escape completion, the evening brought forth an excursion through reason, hurting the demons, trying to purchase their freedom through treason, man is blinded by the light, that doesn’t mean he sees it, cease to believe it, we’re deceived from the very air we breathe in, to even the food we eat, can carry diseases, you spring to fall, doing nothing but passing through seasons, you can’t put the puzzle together until you examine the pieces…