There is a romance in the reflections of brushed stainless steel,
the blurring and stretching of that image we cradle with such motherly care,
the trailing blast of an ego's final flare
as a strange traveling face stares effortlessly through our misconceptions.
We are young in our savage, self-imposed heartache.
We stand in the battle field of visionaries' denial,
pop-psychology, like a raging fever, prompts hallucinations of sickness
that are in themselves sickness' proof.
Burn on, wildfire, if it is your highest good
Rage on, twisting river, if it is your way
Sing on, ravaged human, if it is your wholeness.
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