by Nick Gisburne
With shadows, cryptic subtleties he stole,
The shaman shapes the space through which we swim.
Our vessels, poised to penetrate the hole,
Disturb the tangled ripples of its rim.
The flesh, imperfect, weak, will not survive
A passage open only to the mind.
The worms of revelation scrape and skive
Our souls, but we are bloody, never blind.
There is no pain, no price, too harsh, too high
To reach the plane of paradise beyond.
Petitioning the dream we know is nigh,
We sense the spiral, opening, respond.
But only evil, truth no tongue could teach,
Infects forever’s edge, beyond the breach.
