“Mental slavery is mental death, and every man who has given up his intellectual freedom is the living coffin of his dead soul.” Robert Green Ingersoll
The mirror mocks a stagnant pool, wherein My face, a mask, etched lines of habit, deep The years, like silt, have settled, layer thin, No tide of change to stir the quiet sleep. The heart, a metronome, beats out the same, Each tick is a testament to tedium's reign, Desire's bright spark, once danced in youthful flame, Now embers ashen beneath the weight of rain. The mind, a well once brimmed with dreams and lore, Now stagnant, choked with weeds of routine's hold, No echo of the songs it sang of yore, Just whispers of the tales that once were told.
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