The beast begins to feast. I drop my guard and let him in again. No winning this, lost sight, swallowed whole. Flee, flee, run, run from him...no time, no exit. HERE I AM. Push it outside, smash it, stomp on it. Make a mess of what you can’t change. Throw this out the window. Why have nice things when your insides are being gnawed on, when the foundation is worn, when the beast wears your skin? High, I’m high, chasing that high, but this high isn’t light, it’s heavy, heavy on another layer while I’m down low. 3AM, I lean back, ashing another joint, it hits like Delta Quantum Kush, an imaginational herb, and that’s when it cooks me. Every hit burns me like grief crushed into light by a nebula. Baked, but hungry for more than munchies, craving questions for my sorrow. High, I’m high, I’m alive, that question chases me up till 3:33AM. Grief is the chrono-synaptic blast. Where did my questions go? Like photons from a dying star slipping through my fingers, like sorrow trying to escape my lips but having nowhere to bliss, I walk through the wound dripping honey, the blaze of a newborn star burns in me, the obsidian center stone remembers the fire that lit it, every question I ask cuts deeper, bleeding into its mouth until it's the only way out. Sorrow’s light soaking my pillow tonight. a sorrow pressed so deep it bleeds onto vellum, not on my epidermal subcutaneous layer but artery thin skin trembling with questions.. why am I breathing? I crave the enigma, the riddle with no stigma, the needle etched between ash and silence night even each photon I inhale is a letter, written in fire, a message slipping through my lungs like memory too bright to inhale grief becomes the script.. light becomes the ink.. and my sorrow is the only page left unburned..undone every hit burns me like grief crushed into light by a nebula craving questions for my sorrow a sorrow pressed so deep it bleeds onto vellum, not on my epidermal subcutaneous layer but artery thin skin trembling with questions.. why am I breathing? I crave the enigma, the riddle with no stigma, the needle etched between ash and silence night even each photon I inhale is a letter, written in fire, a message slipping through my lungs like memory too bright to inhale grief becomes the script.. light becomes the ink.. and my sorrow is the only page left unburned..undone
