I’ve been wearing these chains so long, they’re part and parcel with my body.
The Soul and The Supreme are superbly different. The pendulums swing in sync just to tell me a secret.
Head-spinning on a broken cranium, blood paints the occipital.
The stairs seem to be cracked on the way to heaven. Is that normal? I’d expect better decor. The linens and fabrics are tethered, ripped, burnt with holes. The roads been closed for construction and I’ve been following a detour for hundreds of miles, maybe thousands.
None of the colors in my memory are pastel, every experience inks me vividly.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could all just build our lives?
A universe based on karma isn’t fair to me.