Unto Self: “Chisel through a Maze.”

I’m sober, love, drifting into shadows—angry as hell. I

was numb, love—eager and desperate to transcend. I’m

somewhere, love—feeding green ducks, and God is

sipping.

See lakes aflame, gutting out purgatory. I’m crying for

souls, wailing love, crawling up mountains. Haven’t we

died, proud of our affliction, and nearly psychotic. I ask,

seeking comfort—Ghost to soul.

Something is wrong: a generation gripping dirt, lost and

confused, popping pills. Where was father—akin to

myself? a dread to feel, achieving much division. So

mother rifts and falls apart, crooked with fever.

Pay a tollbooth and enter gates, await the pain; for deep

inside a riddle breathes, and sin is creeping. I’m so close,

calm and collected, courting chi. Imagine this mischief,

studying gurus.