Is It Really Complex?

Internal struggles grapple with the soul
Like two gladiators clinging to the hope that murder and conquest
will exalt them.
It's a facade. A ruse.
A clever trick that
the mind plays
to prop up multiple concocted scenarios as being
arbitrarily opposed.
The truth is there is no opposition, only composition.
And nobody knows what this mind is composed of.
Not even the mind itself. Paradoxical, surely.
The only solace comes from the high.
The pill ,
the needle,
the hit,
the bump,
the sunset,
the glowing screen,
the page of written "epiphanies" and mysteries
that make the mind either ooh and ah or simply shut off.
One way or another, the mind finds a way to declare a winner
at the very least a draw--
so that the game my end.
For that's all that it needs. An ending.

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