Well

You can make yourself who and what you are
but it doesn't mean I have to like what you've become.

Immolation

Someone rekindle this dying fire before embers fade to ash.

Build it up into a raging pyre once more,

Let all our past sins and failings char.

Those memories however, are what help make us who we are.

A funeral pyre?

No, only a funeral for our old selves.

A celebration of rebirth.

Smoke follows us 'til emancipating winds come a’ blowing,

Only a slight taste in the air is left, a haunting reminder.

Leave nothing un burnt.

I?

Absurd freedom.

Watch it roll all the way down again,

Better push it up now.

Bo.

Roots drink deep from the earth

& seeds grow into shoots.

Leaves soak up the sun,

Essences essential to living.

Entwined to natural patterns,

Simply being part of the cycle.

A beautiful act that is so normal

Yet completely magnificent.

Concrete and the axe destroy all this.

Leave life to be and partake in it,

One is all and all is one in this world.

Psilocybin visions open my eyes to this Bo

Natrual illumination reveals it.

Never have I closed then since.

Limerence? (partial)

(this is a very unfinished piece, I think it’ll never be really finished because my thoughts & feelings on this subject will change and develop over my entire life. So this is a snapshot of sorts, an insight into present said feelings. No italics or bold this time, let it emphasise itself )

That one little word.

Over used & rarely meant now,

But to be like a part of someone else

& likewise their heart bound to yours.

When two people bind together

In a union transcending just lust or attachment.

What a feeling it is!

Do not expect it on demand like so many do,

For it isn’t about instant gratification.

Instead allow it to be nurtured and inspired

By whomever makes life about passion once more.

That is the act of two souls as one.

There is so much there, biding it’s time,

Waiting to be given out & reciprocated when received unconditionally.

Such a powerful force yet so easy for it to falter.

Harder though, to find it sometimes in a cold world.

Clockmaker

Let him past your face

& spinning hands.

Show him how you tick away.

Then he’ll fix your workings,

With his mending hands.

You’re running just like clockwork.

Never turning his gaze on himself,

The artisan slaves for you.

Selfless in pursuit of improvement.

The cold metal gears not caring

For the passion behind the touch.

Only craving the attention they need.

Is this unfulfilling and torture for him?

Yet there is there a beauty to the absurdity of his effort,

Committed to making sure things run smoothly.

As long as you’re still running like clockwork at least…