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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