When the Magic Ceased to Exist

A poem on the mental state:


I find the outlook simple

All that I can see


Exists for me to see,

It is not clear how it came to be,

But we are indeed trained to see.


People wander and talk

Few talk of wonder


Many are miserable,

Or even horrible,

Living lives that are terrible. 


People share everything in common

But the mind they speak with


And the self they teach with,

Questioning many others, ardently

The definitive answer for right or wrong. 


We become a land of the thing

A vile obstruction toward nothing


Except the presentiment of our desires,

A vicious cycle of future predicament,

Taut like animals strumming a hopeless chord


We too hope victory to be our only accord. 

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