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I am the sole owner of my perception.
The false and unrecognisable instant,
Which we are all part.
The scene,
Which we all must act.

My perception calls me
Bound by my perceptions,
Adjusting all that I see
Into the manageable realm of recognition.
To be a child:
Where all was new,
Where preconceptions created no illusion,
Only the deft touch of instance,
Massing towards a listened moment.
Oh to be a child.

Those stars, which now bring me, close,
Settle me beneath their cool grasp,
In eternal reverence of the instruction
Humanity calls home.

So I drink and I smoke,
Killing the feeling that importance has placed
Upon my significant moment.
But awake I still lie.
The night weighing hard on my mind
All thoughts of future and past,
Loss and gain,
Shaping the world’s unconscious grasp.

What do those watchers say?
High above,
Deep in recognition,
Far beyond my self.
The question fails me,
Separates me,
Keeps me clear,
When clarity is beyond me
And there is only confusion.
Oh to be a child.

Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.

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The following comments are for "The Winding World."
by Thea Veol

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