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Melancholy, by Edvard Munch
Robert L. Martin

The Journey Within

 
 
When life and the living of it
Is a mysterious animal,
Trapped inside a cage
With no means of escape;
Comes a time to
Look into the hidden self,
Past nebulous street lights
And buried secrets,
Through dark streets
With burnt out candles,
Past smoldering tombs
Engraved with ancient words,
Smothered in gristly mosses
A journey without a map,
Across overgrown paths
And endless thickets,
From years of neglect
And indifference,
Down through a twisted maze
Into the paradise of divine truths,
The real self before the numbing,
The crystal waters of the mind,
The subconscious rising with the dawn,
The awakening by the eyes of the sun,
The illumination of the forsaken soul,
The ascension of the spirit,
Comes the knowledge of the self
From the journey within.

Introspection

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