These weekends are no balm
Lack of intention, absent desire,
Confusion brings me low,
A tightness in my temples,
These trappings in my chest.
I crave escape,
I wish to egress.
I did some 3-MEC,
120mg oral. Mellow
but it's fine, I like the odd cathinone.
Eventually the substance fades,
As do I. Late into the night

he spoke to our curious group
about a book he wrote in prison,
The Rose of Paracelsus. There was
a mystical quality about him, calm,
Measured, gracious, wise and sagely.
His caution against the endless chasing
struck me, and advice to mind intentions.

I'm left pondering
the relation between
desire and intent,