The morning wakes to prayers

The rising sun, the passing moon

And everything is more beautiful

Even the grass are waving 

Hello

The dew having washed away the days previous’ strife

Remember how we almost didn’t make it, they say

Remember our exile

Our blooms turned to dried thorns 

And we almost became too harsh for this world

One turns to tumble with withered roots 

For talk of perspective and state marriage 

The day turns, granting redemption

The modern signs of the god we killed

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“Has it been a good trip”?

I ponder the ambiguous nature of “good”

Also of “trip” 

Also am reminded of the aphorism:

“Taking a trip, not taking a trip”

Where it seems like a line in the sand, a decision

But matters not

I’ve spoken to angels

God’s hand upon my shoulder

Satan’s tongue at my feet

Lapped at the shores of chaos 

And begged for the sun’s mercy

The privilege of almost drowning comes to mind 

And see milky froth, the starchy blue of the sky

- the clip not long enough for a quarter full breath

A clear, crystal palace

And I worry my heart may burst

But I wake to still see small faces of terror amidst our arms, embraced

The Great Maw’s open mouth

Our transition from the edge remains unclear 

Three to four last struggles for air

And suddenly I feel the sand reappear under my feet

The pain in my legs tells me briefly I grew roots

The Mother gives