Serena Malcolm

It’s true what they say, that the mind is the limit,
That any battles outside it are conquered within it,
But any battles inside it can’t be conquered without it,
Impossible, still, when each synapse is knouted.

Each lash, a thief of perception so deathly defiant,
Makes all the small things turn into great giants,
So how do you fight it, this war that’s inside?
That eats its own tail in this playground of tyrants?

When you can’t trust the whispers that infiltrate thoughts,
And pilfer the trinkets of love they once stored,
That hide in the echoes of things once assured,
That now warp as the temporal fabric distorts.

And the echoes stack lies that make walls to the sky,
That trap slivers of truth in the very depths they deny,
True, some battles are lost, but most are no longer vied,
For the mind is the limit of a limiting mind.