This mind turns on its axis.
Continuous thought uninterrupted
by the vicious sleep of reason,
breeding Goya's monsters in ground fertile
with preconceived knowledge.
The grease of time speeds the spin.
Disoriented, weak against the chain,
links of assimilated concepts layer like brick.

The whirl of intellect births ideas.
Intrinsic contemplations on a mental screen,
infallible doctrines speculate
on suspicions whispered to living rock.
This mind trips on unearthed reality.
Forgotten voices speak for themselves,
startled hands bring pen to paper,
validation stains the page with creations' mistakes.

And I hear the scream as I write the words.

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