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Prism beams of an oyster shell confinement with a metaphorical gray fog
and composed of rambling puffs of wind shear little enigmas,
shroud one’s inner sunrises in a dazzling, flickering silvery glow.
They appear seductively simple,
yet are utterly more complex
than any mentally composed
pyramid of meditative sagacity.
One is lured by a soul song
to the window of ever shifting
avenues of psychedelic arches,
pondering
the options
between embracing the death strokes in vividness
or consuming the plates of curiosity appetizers
having the taste of some stabilizing melons
that are distilled with a sugar of eclectic theorem seasonings
where the conscious
snacks on a rush of practical incantations
while secretly listening for the sound
of falling stars.
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