The People in the Meadow

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There are people living in a wide, open meadow, their faces long for wanting.
They stand almost side by side on individual patches no bigger than the average conception.
They pace, seeking sustenance in liberal holds of a lifeless, muddy glue.
They know the futility of their search, yet they will continue until their man-made pit swallows their minds and drowns their sorrows.
With their vision, only a dark shroud can bring sight.
It is not their fault, they assure, for they are prisoners.
They are slaves to their cells.
The walls of those cells are built by an eye.
It is the eye in the mind that constructs and confines.
There is no reality between one or the other.
There is only one and there is no other.
To lose your eye is to become one.
To be one is to see beyond cells, seeing that which truly engulfs, walking freely on nourishing grounds.

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