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Beneath the moon's veil, where stars whisper at the universe's edge,
Thoughts sway in the echoes of riddles uncomprehended.
Here, the sacred message from a journey with the hallucinogen's verse
Tells a tale of how the soul's science can unravel the densely woven thread.
The messengers of mental alchemy, with words of smoke and ink,
Proclaim that the world can be rewritten, not in the testament of matter we blindly spin.
They sing to us that altars should rise in our hearts, not in the temple of commodities;
It's a revelation that shakes our foundations, deepest doubts birthed, wrapped in sheaves.
Culture, this temple of ephemeral illusions, is summoned to metamorphosis,
To a rebirth from its own ashes, like the legendary Phoenix of lore.
"Avoid the deceit that's fed to us," the murmur of ancestral waves urges us, "Choose the osmosis
Of genuine feelings, ancient wisdom, over the vast deluge of anxious venom."
The narrow streets of commerce will be lost in a forest of new sensations,
Where spiritual values will grow like lianas, thrilling the walls of glass and concrete.
Psychedelia shows us a fissure in the narrow iron curtain of reality,
Where fear is just a cry lost to the wind, and our souls can breath deeply beneath the jet sun.
It's a terrifying truth, that we have hidden wings behind backs marred by routine,
And we can soar far from this cage filled with polished objects, disciples of the glory chase.
Beyond the highest mountain of consumption, lies a valley brimming with flowering meanings,
And this dreamer anthropologist gently invites us to the inner gardens lurking silent, yearning to be reborn in the tale.
"Say farewell to the labels which suffocate the heart with burdens of expectation,"
The psilocybin whispers softly in a siren's song echoing through time,
"Freedom is just a step away, in the depths where culture does not define but merely reflects
The pure essence of being, without artifice, without expectations, placing the soul on the throne within."
I observe this taxonomy of ecstasy, the foliage of lost symbols,
And feel how the foundations of the common world wobble, twist into mystery.
It is, beyond doubt, news that unveils us, from beneath masks, the repudiated comical,
That beyond what's bought and sold, an unwavering universe of dream lives on: inward, infinite.
Today, our marketplace of being is filled with objects, yet impoverished in belief,
We sacrifice days and nights upon the altar of the immediate, blinding as a supernova, ephemeral.
This psychedelic message, a new vision like a holy fire demanding presence,
Shakes our certainties, and it invites us to realign the real on the heart's path, the eternally awaited, now lived, in truth.
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