Our reason is soon tested
By germs of gas
As we softly seethe among the flames
The nightmares of our pasts will awake
To hunt us through our older haunts

The death of our hearts soothes
The dearth of our souls
We lie
Drunk, unable to lie

In truth is ruth, but also
Joy
Maybe suffering is first, or truth
Second

Because the poem is another
Of my seeds
Another to grow into mushrooms
Of inhaled gas.