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Complacence - By Daniel L. Tracy

I'm falling through the complacence
of a withering gyre. A spin-away
flung forward through time to a place
where one heroic hell-heartbeat
means the difference between madness
and the wonders of the world.

I look out upon a sea of disharmonious
tranquility and see the last stand of
humanity in dreams and stagecraft spells.

We cheat the continuum of space and time wrapped up in the hearts of
sleepless dreamers.

How long can we hold out against the twist of time? It's driving us forward and away at the same moment. Driving us to intervene in the course of all that is and ever will be in our heads, in our dreams, and in our words.

It's a vision of time like Yeats, or Byron, or Beckett that never ends and never begins.

It just keeps coming around again to a
place where the dreamspells become thick, and the desire to break away is the seed of all the magic left in the world.

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