Mimetic

I dilute myself in an anarchic sub-moral purple thinking.
I pass through worlds of bitter honey.
Unhealthy phosphorescent alerts elude my incursion
into no man's land which,
without valuing my neural network,
becomes a nemesis of unconscious currents
where rebellion becomes pathological
and enemy of all traditional forms,
which do not look at the mirage
in which it is looked at.
An immaterial viscous line starts beating
in my resistant veins, awakening
a branch of anxiolytic tension
that shakes the demons of death.
Everything shouts and nothing attributes it.
The walls of fear tremble
under the attack of an expected panic.
The pressure is normalized
under an armored expression code,
depression,
a Machiavellian syndrome...
mimetic.
I revive in the green grass,
every eye closed
looks at me.