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 Dec 2014 Aly the Pear
Wanderer
These voices inside
Are not silent
They are free
Shouting and singing
me me Me **ME
We smoke dried leaves
And drink fermented fruit
To try to escape the prison of reality
Even if it's just momentarily
The walls cave in as thought bends
and misdirection rends reality again.
My mind's craving something
and knows it shouldn't,
The chain that tethers sanity is loose;
I've seen enough,
I tire of, it is too much,
Far too much.

Mortality, the anchor (and teleology)
of this coil.

"And he broke the bread and said",
Where's that syringe at?
There's an itch I gotta scratch!
Quote:
Line Eleven from Corinthians 11:24
With the touch of her flesh

The sweat on the small of her back

The sent of her body

The looks she gives me

The ways she sighs

Within her eyes

With passions of Love
or is it
Passions of ***
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