like spinning a thin line between disillusion and illusion.
making sense of reality is part of digestion.
events get clogged somewhere along the way of the lower intestine.
neurons fire without signal or impulse,
accelerated heart beat, cold hands, no patients.
addiction is popular amongst the living dead,
industrial pipes and fumes parade around our collars.
and coming out of that cloud, all was nothing but a wound up game.
one more trap to domesticate yourself into settling for marked ground.
where's the evolution in that?
walls are built for those left with senses to feel when they've hit one
but there are fields, labyrinths and years of them,
at some point i'm certain i won't see the walls anymore,
i'll even start decorating them with memories of wonderful previous cages
i'd abandoned, thinking myself finally free.