The rat:
the beast so vile
That filth that coats my mind,
In the back, like some cracked tile.
I passed the Stacked earth like a map pile.
These are Mad trials, yet
Glass vials of smiles,
Unabashed, I clashed against the profile.
But who made it with that style?
I walked on for endless miles.
The way was Lit up with candles, and a path to guide was laid in the fabric
of my mind. A track with No handles, and a drop from an endless high.
Light was anything but an object but neither was I.
Standing on the boundary between that one and this child,
Was a ghostly goat eating the flesh of time, as I passed, he howled out a ghastly cry, as if he was the baby, and I was the wild.
The child reached for me,
spoke mutely
With the voice of the dumb, and pointed to the Edge.
“Run.”
A thousand steps,
a cadence,
a vision of a tree full of plums, with no voice, I heard a song impossibly sung,
A sound so primal, like beating drums.
With each step of my legs as they swung, my flesh began to burn.
Pain, in it’s belly I churned, For always, like a beast with a curse.
I pulled myself from agony’s lungs to be spat out, apt, yet undone.
And began to walk again as if I were young.
But everything felt like age, the scent of dying wood, or the drying veins beneath the elder’s hood.
I turned by the orchard to find nothing there, but an empty table with seventeen Silver chairs, and crystal ball slivers suspended in the air: The shards of a memory left empty and bare.
No portions or potions, just power and a Carpenter’s square.
I was a foreigner, lost somewhere.
The leaves that had painted the scene
Became a garnet vanir.
And the idea of peace came clear.
It was something, someone, somewhere other than here.
“Is there any place other than here?”
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
The rat:
the beast so vile
That filth that coats my mind,
In the back, like some cracked tile.
I passed the Stacked earth like a map pile.
These are Mad trials, yet
Glass vials of smiles,
Unabashed, I clashed against the profile.
But who made it with that style?
I walked on for endless miles.
The way was Lit up with candles, and a path to guide was laid in the fabric
of my mind. A track with No handles, and a drop from an endless high.
Light was anything but an object but neither was I.
Standing on the boundary between that one and this child,
Was a ghostly goat eating the flesh of time, as I passed, he howled out a ghastly cry, as if he was the baby, and I was the wild.
The child reached for me,
spoke mutely
With the voice of the dumb, and pointed to the Edge.
“Run.”
A thousand steps,
a cadence,
a vision of a tree full of plums, with no voice, I heard a song impossibly sung,
A sound so primal, like beating drums.
With each step of my legs as they swung, my flesh began to burn.
Pain, in it’s belly I churned, For always, like a beast with a curse.
I pulled myself from agony’s lungs to be spat out, apt, yet undone.
And began to walk again as if I were young.
But everything felt like age, the scent of dying wood, or the drying veins beneath the elder’s hood.
I turned by the orchard to find nothing there, but an empty table with seventeen Silver chairs, and crystal ball slivers suspended in the air: The shards of a memory left empty and bare.
No portions or potions, just power and a Carpenter’s square.
I was a foreigner, lost somewhere.
The leaves that had painted the scene
Became a garnet vanir.
And the idea of peace came clear.
It was something, someone, somewhere other than here.
“Is there any place other than here?”
Poem about psychedelic experience
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