I don't even speak the same language,
Their's is an Enochian epitaph written,
in dark, deep mysterious Sanskrit walls,
awake and be birthed,
into the awaiting chants and arms outstretched,
In a stupor, self imposed,
stamped on this auspicious occasion,
the winds were upturned,
The city scope stretched,
A way I hadn't seen before,
The path led down,
Then collapsed seamlessly into itself,
Sitting in front of these chameleons
and Poseidon Pusifer himself,
two poles to impale,
people like me,
The self is likened to the world world,
The world is likened to the self,
Gravity made the man jump,
the landing broke his fall,
Each moment the breath is breathed,
for every reaction there is a hand,
in waiting,
ready to strike,
Calling out words that don't make no sense,
Feeling things that cease to exist,
they collide,
Splendid omnirealization,
the the world begets,
humanity.