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The Root of Psychosis

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What erratic spasm do we hide
In the inner labyrinths of our veins,
In that darken blood of mysteries
That intertwine and engulf forever.

Tendrils that kiss you like a lover,
Wrap you in a grimace of ecstasy.
It tilts your head in weird dimensions:
To feel worlds within worlds below.

Whose sharp angles perplex us,
Whose eyes stare brightly in midnight.
That heart of hearts lying deep below,
Stirring in the trills of our inner ear.

It whispers in such familiar tones:
It palpitates as the beat of your heart.
One cannot contrast you from this other--
This uncanny, destroyed reflection.

That primordial essence whom we have,
Whom we sedate with simple sleep--
Clouding, obscuring with little jokes:
That monster hiding deep below...

Uncanny spaces and alien places
Are its abode to which it hides.
Eldritch, daemonic, yet worse of all:
It is Human to the very core.

It is you, and you are it.
You hide it in all your actions.
You give such subliminal hints
In your twitching muscles and fits.

It is not your killers and deceivers:
Just an analog, an extension.
No, no, my Dear sweet Dear,
It comes from down below.

The counterpart of God:
The Void, the Least of least.
Our vacuum in the far reaches.

Darkness and places without senses;
This is why our brain always needs perception.
For without dreams and little sparks of twilight,
The monster will consume our little lives.

Psychosis is but a stage of return--
To that darkness which we came.
Till nothing is left and all is gone,
And we, again, begin anew.

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