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Schizophrenia Willows bend with weight of stressful times, near the stonewalled garden flanked with light.
Their voice; the wind, whispers joyless notes,
then shrieks
the Banshee's song within my head.
Ravens' perch,
in lieu of flight, content to watch as evil wraiths eclipse my mind, where I, committed, flee the forest maze, whose rubber trees distinctly scope my gaze, while raging storms mask full an opiate sun, then electrify to quell delirium. Shadows dance, jump through the artist's palette of tranquil hues, splashing colors of the spectrum on my thoughts, then leap in a kaleidoscope of hope. Jonquils sway, as images serene direct my feet, along a snake-like path to garden's edge, where I, no longer marked by feral glares, cool and haunting, hard, fixated stares, view "Veronica Spicata," single bloom, within a Monet landscape titled "Life." Vote for this poem
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