my voice wasn’t whispered to me
I didn’t learn to think from the professor of moby ****
I hit my head on saint paul’s contentment
upended in reflection
hours upon hours taking in the sky
and more hours
cerulean shaded ethereal hum-glow
to the duration of substance
until discernment was properly cut through
like forgetting unimportant events
until I was surrounded by gifts
no longer standing at an entryway
but spinning and somersaulting in the waves