Treasure Island

Louis Cecile

(London)

Conditioned


Like demons cast out of souls we are scattered into

the night left with are own misfortune

No longer can we behold

The fortitude of existence mystifies indefinitely

Seeking solitude in body when the truth is spirit

Captured by the physical

The mind justifies this terrain

Higher planes obstructed by a new day

We plan to increase constriction

Narrowing our thought

Pure magic is from where we came

Chaos circle rides to take us back

We create war when our conditioning needs to be attacked

Submitted: Sunday, March 07, 2010

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