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It is not easy

this mad scramble for words,

this intense orgasmic union

of consciousness with being,

this marriage of thought

with lines and symbols,

imbuing them with meaning

beyond what is shown

revealing the unknown.

Yes, it is not easy

this interweaving of realities

a communion between

existence and philosophies —

grinding them closer

breaking them down to their core,

rediscovering whispered truths

fleshing out, discovering

elusive images that live only in myths, 

within this thin fragile line

where the soul lies closely

oh so imperceptibly 

with the visceral heart, beating

bathe in warm crimson

continuously bleeding, inward

until this red red red river

would burst forth and flow, outward

from the tip of this pen

which now purposely scars 

this once pristine innocent surface.

For is it not true, 

that the Phoenix is reborn

only by dying …

only by slowly burning?