A field of thought twists and climbs like a ravenous vine. logic seems far fetched as the vines rise in waves and crash into a stranglehold that squeezes perception into a faint light. Battered by the waves the shores of an Island disappears with each step - each step a crossroad devoured in bliss as the vines thicken from all it consumes. The Island fades eternally - reinventing it's shores just beyond the farthest reach of an ever growing vine; the vine adjusts it's appetite to prefer the taste of change. The Island is everything the vine hates - it is reason, equality, freedom, understanding and acceptance in a world of languages scripted per the days fashion. A flower in a sea of vines flowers amidst the weeds beckoning the hinges of perception to release the doors in lieu of windows nailed shut. The Island is the middle of nowhere center of it all and hikes up its shores submitting itself to the waves that rise out of chaos - swollen from ignorance and thrusting from a hollow - only to find the Island to be a mirage. A matador excites the world which seeks to confound and blind - a world that rears a devils tangle of choking breath, gathering all it's reaches into a killers grasp and in one mighty blow it attempts to plow the dull edges of confusion into a peace that is still, calm and unnerved. The Islands an illusion - a matador that lures it's enemies from out of the dark as it travels into the unknown of each approaching moment. That vine of chaos which cultivates the frustration like a gardener in order to feed once it's full bloom, chokes on itself as the matador pulls away the veil as the monstrous bull of tangles strikes. The Islands a myth - a flower amidst a sea of weeds, the eye shut to a world closing in. It seems that to find the light of a situation one must enter the dark. There's frustration and hope with every breath - so inhale for a change of breath...
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