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Voices out of my head
And into yours,
Into mine intertwine
Like vines. My conscience
Must unravel each sinew,
Each thought, before
It is bought by belief.
The thread of consciousness
branches, razor wires,
slicing into fruits or pruning
A limb at a whim.
A dangerous business
Thought is,
As real as a slap
In the face.
Except, it cannot face
It’s victim, each soul
With the living
Suffers its existence,
Fights for its own voice
to win, to stroke
A face like a feather
Or give a gift
Of knowledge a smile
Of revelation a laugh
Each fiber of wisdom
As fragile as glass
The fruit of the battle
Of the mind.