The blades of neurons spinning in my head
have all run down their crystals in despair
Emotionless, each dangles from a thread,
each damoclean thought must now beware
If numb they might be wakened; they are not
Coagulated tendrils dry and crack
This dead organic soul begins to rot
My mind begins to fade to fade to black
Perhaps the field is green to mark the way
Perhaps the sky is blue to take me in
“Perhaps” the girl in pink begins to say
then laughs and in a dance begins to spin
And as she laughs and twirls I hear the sound
of wind that softly sweeps the world around

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