There’s
a war; where
there’s
a positive for a negative
coursing
internally, with
moments
to speak of freedom.
I
hear an echo, where freedom’s challenged, for want of destruction. There’s
something there, shadowed in a memory bank, where trauma took root. The faces
are vague. The answers are torn. Negotiation is but a fallacy. If not for X—Y
wouldn’t exist—climbing a sky-ladder; where there’s a mirror, reflecting
ideals, through rough terrain. The more the rants, the closer to home, to give
back training wheels. The fog is but illusion, where silence beckons, to travel
deeper; where caves speak, where walls crumble, where snippets give voice. The
journey is mind, where help is research, to wrestle in parts. One echoes—“I
know you, a feature from this life.” Something is mimicked, a damaged tissue,
if not addressed. One waits, through doing good, to hear it surface. One is
made privy, to a type of cycle, prone to rename trauma. There’s identity, a
face to madness, found in this life. One utters—“I remember you, a feature of
my youth.”
There’s
something else, a feature, judging responses. One feels intense, to chant the
energy, to calm in segments; where names surface, as if the flame, to remember
illusions. The echo fades, where syllables spark, to pressure presence. One
utters—“I was born with you, a feature of my psyche.” There’s a shift, to
siphon pressure, where the war settles. Hours become new, where good is done,
to strike an echo. One replies with silence, or even chants, to readdress the
trauma; for there’s mind within mind—or tissue within tissue. One
utters—"There’s a mind in tissue, probing a mind." The war is there, a type of
trauma, a ship to struggle through storms.
