In the corridors of a muddled mind,
Within the condensation of a thick fog,
I often find,
A relapsed presence, a menopause
In life, an uncertainty
Of kind,
Where good and evil dined.
Poetry is the release for such a mind
For it abides,
Inside the realms of the unknown,
Hands you a key to reach,
Un-reckoned heights,
Ventures into twilight,
The beginning or end almost tangible,
The...
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