with heavy hands
through the winding hours.
forget your troubles, friend of mine.
our new rituals,
spiritual in a blinded sense,
guide us to a center.
a muse, a tool
to bring us into the ether.
breathe deep; live now and forever, dear friend,
in the celestial ambiance of
what is and what was to
bring it to whatever we may be now.
we open our palms, accepting sight into the fluidity of
the motions of our existence.
i dive with the ghosts of my troubles
into the pools of the collective
under the canopy of
disarray and disillusion.
we follow the breadcrumbs of
tangents full of tired rhetoric and
reminders of real world happenings,
with the collective's cautious advice at
with a tired soul,
an empty mind,
and light less eyes