There in the 32 minds’ middle earth,
The primordial g-spot should awake after two triangular trip tickets
Begging the question:
The tree is there, the forest is where?
Tactile spurts of emotions and only one curve.
Unavailing efforts with fractals and kaleidoscopic Ceades.
Soliciting the bending of the conscience’s horizons.
But no, you still have control.
Channelling the inner pine to identify the dimensional gateway.
Impatience twitches the sticky electrons of sweet Melatonin.
And the oxygen boils against anxious arteries.
And the energy, it flows and floats.
Seeking the prodigal spiritual being;
The innocent perspective of a trigger happy receptor,
The perennial master destresser of a magnetic decompressor.
And callously failing to launch in the following sequence:
Replication. Redirection. Reflection.
Vacancy. Emptiness. Fatigue.
Surrender. Craving. Freedom.
There, in the 5th early hour of the dawn, there it was.
A glitch. A bright fuse blast. A shutdown. A reset. A restart.
Painless. Motionless. Universe, I am laying here still, listening.
Silence. I cannot see the forest, I cannot even hear the bristling of the leaves of that single tree. I’ve lost it.
Yet it has not simply been a lustful yearning. There is a silver lining to it all;
The passing falsehood of lucid streaming deception has left a remnant of desire to ride the raging bull once more.
The predisposition has already surfaced. The engine is oiled. The burnt fuse, replaced.
For a journey to an introspective extrasensory projection, and across the boundaries of dimension.
Helen Marie Joyce 