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![Image for the poem No Mad](/images/uploads/poemimages/433625.jpg?1635505238)
No Mad
Rain drops into ripple
over the surfaces of accumulation
looking glasses in crystal,
crystalline in the membrane formation:
Memory
of
my
Mind,
I remember a time
of purity,
Purely divine
Lost to the machine,
lost to time
This time.
This machine,
it is powered by a usurped dream
Vibrating
in the memories of drops of rain
That preserve
the signatures of our former statures
Our divine natures
in
elevated
Ascension.
Here’s the thing.
It is our kin,
humans of human kind
Who comprise the gears
of this machine.
Is this something sad?
I feel nothing.
No.
I am not mad.
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