All these slip-stream silk canopies unfurling out at last keep the interchanging threads tangled in the past. It doesn't matter what I lose in the search to find my Self amid cacophonous raucousness and distractions from consciousness. When the flowers fully bloom, bearing fruit too ripe to wait, and a secondary sight sends me right into the zone, I'll walk the path the ancients tread and follow my voice back home. Sing me a song in medicine tongues, as serpents' illusions hiss from my lungs. Knowing how the angels' trumpets' wail and mourn the loss of prosperity hidden on the shore I'll listen, still reeling from the stars in my head, to the bliss that is waiting for "mine" to lie dead.