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Death, Rebirth and a Canvas.

Stop it.
Cease blindly
believing in the voices

swarming like made flies,
vultures circling, buzzing
over the ripening
prize inside your head.

Do not for a minute
pretend you are the casket
or its contents.

You are alive.
Not expired.
You can never die.

Though naturally,
not all
of you survives.

They call it evolution.

Internal whispers
abuse you, they only
hold you back, enchant
you so that you run
to embrace the familiar.

All as a fertile
void awaits.

A canvas for you.


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