the mind loses track of its own footsteps,
careful caress of the imagination looks~less
like certainty, more like halluciation.
whos to say that right or wrong are~made~in
definite conditions. restricting structures
will after 'time' crumble, erupting explicit
creativity - for the stream of consciousness
is a fierce nemesis to those prison walls,
its flux exceeds polarities: held in chains
is the spirit of free action. under lock and
key the heart seems to be, the overseer of
unknown name, is making rules and games as it
pleases, though this is one whos made within
that paradigm of it's own fashioning...
cataclysmic din of uncertain exoneration
words must find their place in all this chaos
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