After time words blur, an absurd slurring cures worried attachments to them,
and when I catch that nonsense by letting it go suddenly the flow flourishes raining over my sustainable poetry planted long ago.

I bloom, the shrooms cue music encoded in the OM, a place called home for me, where stones can be bass drums thumping heartbeat rhythms.

Something slithers, something withers; the darkness as I spark this campfire light house announcing all pirate ships can dock around my mountain.

I shout shenanigans like zippy dippy do dah while yodeling love as the wind bends my words above as below like a yoga pose around the world.