The thoughts ping, trapping me more easily than I trap them.
They hold so much allure to get taken away in,
and while I try to best them,
they forever win.
Instead I must consign the heap to burn, float away freely,
or I must be bound in chains of reason and fantasy,
worlds away from each other
pushing at each other, yet, twining around and around
until they are plied, as a cord,
my sad version of sanity,
reality and illusion bound as one
to tie me to a world that I do not know,
and while I would try to push and pull reality,
to make it all that ties me here,
I know that illusion, more alluring, wins at times,
and that the ground that I feel I walk upon,
is nothing but trickster clouds.
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