Do you feel the sticky, moist, mold?
The one that grows in your brain,
The one that stops you thinking,
Eyes on ceiling, absent and gone.

I feel the mold, growing from every neuron,
Once neurons were lighting up,
Like thunder storms, but now,
The mold it’s much more static,
Nothing happens, only slow growth,
Decay, vegetation, integration, resignation.

Do you feel the mold?

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