An inkling of
something authentic
laced in Psilocybin
decides to reminisce-
she stood there once again
brown eyed and secret filled,
a testament of time
and how it can’t heal the ill

Thought I was spent
but it’s those days of my youth
when nothing needed
to make sense
where I traced the message
as it connects:
an answer undesirable,
still honesty none the less

Hope straightens its back
as I attempt to settle the past
and grasp at the present,
assuring that ego will learn
how to just let things happen

How to ride the
unknowable wave,
and sense these gentle
reminders
that there is no escape
because we are
simply messengers
conscious for reasons
understood
only when in symbiosis
with Mother Earth