All alone,
tilted head.

God’s vines fall
around what’s said

Entrapped in rapture,

Jungian shadows
wrap my stature

as

dreamcatchers hold
concepts captured.

Safety in this
sacred space.

Aromatic,
mystic scents

Pressure though

as psychonauts

try to find some


sense.

I may find myself

Playing with the moving expense of
changing past, present and future tense


I fear however

That I’ll waste my time on the fone
with the secretary of Offense

When all I really want to do
Is be singular as the mystic tense.