As the blackness of ink soaks through the snow white pages
so does the breathing get harder and the heartbeat races
as you fight your ghosts in the shadow tunnels
making sense of your fever dreams
revelation always follows after the moment
you want to surrender and stare into the abyss
it takes years for us to develop strong spines
first we develop fragile cells and flesh, bones we create
much later
we lose our shape living in the modern world
we've forgotten and destroyed most of ancient wisdom
there are many hard battles we fight
inside of ourselves and by ourselves
for we've never learned trust
and helping others is under-rated
we weren't born to this earth to walk it alone
sometimes it seems we talk endlessly, but fail to say a
thing
we rather keep it locked up,
either we find the right path or we get lost,
hearts have the knowledge of healing,
but the mind remembers and lingers to details
since it is the fiercest critique
can you still distinguish real from fake?
can you still tell who is the writer of your life?
is time taking our dreams away?
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