Bless my soul,
I did not know, indeed,
I doubt you know much better,

the degree of not knowing general
ignorance of the whole why Jesus died.

But the trusted if he was real, he said,
in red, Father for give all who know not
nor ever did since I was called Daysman,
know what they do nor why, thus he
submitted, indeed, to make the peace,
please release the holy terror, exhale

and inhale and find a core where we
all breathed a bit of the peace we
agree we let be, freely my peace lasts,

yes, my love, through growing old,
love and peace eventually merge,

ayahuasca vine of beautiful adversity
climbing arbole vitale, up to the sunshine

warming February where we ignore
for pity sake the fool on the hill

thinking it wise to make peace,
wishing breaths, hoping helper breaths,

assisting intellectual lifts

up
from the bog,
whither big logs go to rot,

and feed a very rare toad,

who sweats DMT, you kiss it.
Lick your lips.

That's what the locals told Grimm.

Or it's the way locals tell the same rot.