in a lunar fortnight
the rites are immanent
in the cosmos descent is inevitable
the drunken rites
absolve our ecstasy
make whole again the leftovers
stop what you are doing
and wake up from this dream
a beautiful prison is all i see
respect kindness and let it flower
for a certain portion of an hour
this is theft
the way we neglect our music
is simply tragic
relax to the point of expansion
i sense your new friends
the real ones are the ones
who stick around for the end
blessed are they who don’t play pretend
so forgive yourself
at each morning’s bend
with moisture and hunger to spare
you are as supple as bamboo
and throughout space and time we bear
this cold that does not signify the end