The mind bicker is the hijacker
of the joy you share
with your true self
without you knowing.

Without you knowing
it pulls you from the TV couch
into the dream screen,
where you crouch
and chase butterfly dream screams
of internal thoughts,
not knowing your butt
is still on the sofa.

But, so far your meta mind mindlessly
ponders pinned metamorphed moths
as you awake with the rump still on the
chrysalis cocoon sofa seat stump,
where outside, larvae dance
in pillars of atomic smoke screens,
inhaling achromic colourful caterpillar
mycelium mushroom fruit wings
as they fly in rings
around God's gloria,
puffing Melon
as they enter Moria,
well on their way with wanded torches
as they're wounded, tortured,
for not following their true noses,
which poses a risk of a bad Balrog trip,
trespassing upon grounds where
you shall not pass
out of bounds.

You're a thrall, a peon,
to the bold putrified mine troll.
Mine gold purified, disperse the mindcontrol,
enroll and transmute yourself,
accepting exchanges of darkness
for a robe of whiteness.

As they probe you lightly remember
the spinning egg spinning brightly,
your dream state slowly
dwindling down quietly
to the centre of the core,
the hearty iron ore beating in unison
with the universal you-universe.

Awakening from the inception,
reminding you of the deception of personhood,
hooded in a cloaked neighbourhood
of flying cacoons and climbing human baboons
carrying and burying everlasting,
halo nesting, blasting luminous eggs
as your inner voice begs for swinging wings,
to surf the winds of the current spins.

...a butterfly's a
cocoon's a
larva's an
egg's a
butterfly...

The circling battle
of the finite opposites
within the one allied infinity.