Healing Pathways

The ink is a slow animal, a thick salt

creeping across the white desert of the page.

I do not sing of the rose for its perfume,

but for the way it rustles like silk in a burning house—

the ephemeral weight of what we lose

while we are busy counting the stars.

The Fallen Fruit

There is a lemon on the table, a yellow sun

trapped in a cage of shadows.

It is beautiful, yes, but it is already

a memory of a lemon.

The peel is a map of a country

that no longer exists on the globe.

I touch the rind and feel the cold

of every winter that has passed since Genesis.

We are not the owners of this light;

we are merely the guests of a flame

that consumes the wood and the hand that feeds it.

The sea continues its blue industrial work,

breaking the rocks into forgotten sand,

while we write names in the foam

with fingers made of smoke.

The Great Escape

The dictionary is a cage of silent birds;

today, we leave the door hanging wide.

Forget the syntax of the sidewalk—

the grey, geometric grief of the city.

Instead, the spine becomes a vine,

the mind a canopy of emerald noise.

We are no longer the students of the clock,

but the masters of the sudden leap,

swinging through the golden, tangled "now."

Let the scholars count the dust on the shelf;

we are busy eating the light

and shouting back at the sun.

The Death Trap (A Shouting Poem)

The spine is a lightning rod

bolted to a sidewalk that wants to swallow us whole.

Twist. The history books are lying in the gutter.

Shout. The silence is a polished boot on the neck.

They built a cage and called it a city,

a "death trap" lined with neon and velvet,

but the pulse is a drum that won’t stop—

too black for their bleach,

too strong for their thin, brittle laws.

We are the ink that refuses to be erased,

the shadow that outlasts the sun,

the ghost in the machine

grinding the gears to a beautiful,

shimmering halt.

Transmorphic Rush

In the velvet hush of dawn's unspooling thread,

where riverine thoughts coil like eels in silt,

I fracture open, a noetic bloom—

petals of mind scattering, wild and unbidden.

Disruptive force, you hammer at my ribs,

a bang of thunder in the marrow's cave,

forcing shades of being to swirl and clash:

emerald regrets, sapphire hungers, crimson fears,

all transmorphing in the rush, the sacred flood.

Psychedelic healing, oh luminous ache,

like Oliver's heron lifting from the marsh,

legs trailing water's memory, skyward grace—

yet Olds' fierce gaze pierces the body's tender siege,

where wounds unbutton into galaxies of light.

I am the vine twisting through cracked stone,

mellifluous verse a serpent's hymn,

dislodging the old self in ecstatic shatter.

Rush bang—here, in this verdant pulse,

we mend by breaking, born anew in the haze.

The forest whispers back, a lover's breath,

healing the edges where the soul frays thin,

psychedelic petals unfurling in the vein—

noetic fire forging what was lost to bloom.

In these shades, we rush eternal, whole.