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.

Erich Campbell

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