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Eye of the Dust Devil in My Mind. 

My history is a muddled mess
of chaotic

movements further confused
by a cacophony of voices
and sounds drowning out all
other noise, dominating
the reverberations
in my far-more inner ear.

Cyclonic spins
of jagged pieces, dust-devils
of the mind, complete with jarring
flashes of colors and pools
of morphing shapes

that dance out of tune
to the auditory mess
but remain true
to themselves all throughout the jig 
around the third, inner eye.

History is the endless storm I carry.
Lightning strikes, angry thunder,

a mosh pit of swinging fists,
abusive and invisible
haunt me like tireless, raging wind.

Most violent of mysteries.

I must make sense of this.
Understand what happened. 
Where I’ve been, who I am.

I need to know it all
to make educated decisions. 
Knowledge is power:
personal freedom and responsibility.

Secrecy, conspiracy or innate ignorance
are our obstacles towards true liberation.

Never do I want to believe.

No, I need to know
it so that I know where to go
from here, who I wish

to become and how
to become him.


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