Written: 1/18/2026
So, this is it then?
The stone I uncovered from seroquel ivy
with questioning and fearful fingers -
grabs the rock that spells: "Success"
that was birthed from the base of
the methuselah tree.
A stone statue and a glass version
of me standing together -
All in all, surrounded by white and blue
circles of embers.
Enthralled as a smaller planet -
eclipsing the moon that spilled a
shadow onto the earth.
How a hang glider draws near -
Hundreds then a few, as I
imagine the particles of
what seems like a normal life.
I ripped these pagan pages out on Sunday
and fed them to my new fireplace.
With green fires -
Smoke like angry hands meant to
defend like the acid from a pineapple -
Attacking by way of its back against the wall.
So, these are my admiral streets?
A well that leads to a cistern
of blinding shining blessings? -
Saying to myself that my prayer life
has brought me out of the echo chamber
of black wonders.
What choice do I have, Lord?
Words from the man who lives as
though a gun is always pointed at him.
But now I'm a man with
invisible ghostly winds I always
try to hide in.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 10:25 AM UTC
Written: 1/18/2026
So, this is it then?
The stone I uncovered from seroquel ivy
with questioning and fearful fingers -
grabs the rock that spells: "Success"
that was birthed from the base of
the methuselah tree.
A stone statue and a glass version
of me standing together -
All in all, surrounded by white and blue
circles of embers.
Enthralled as a smaller planet -
eclipsing the moon that spilled a
shadow onto the earth.
How a hang glider draws near -
Hundreds then a few, as I
imagine the particles of
what seems like a normal life.
I ripped these pagan pages out on Sunday
and fed them to my new fireplace.
With green fires -
Smoke like angry hands meant to
defend like the acid from a pineapple -
Attacking by way of its back against the wall.
So, these are my admiral streets?
A well that leads to a cistern
of blinding shining blessings? -
Saying to myself that my prayer life
has brought me out of the echo chamber
of black wonders.
What choice do I have, Lord?
Words from the man who lives as
though a gun is always pointed at him.
But now I'm a man with
invisible ghostly winds I always
try to hide in.
Request permission to use this poem