Mystic Shift.
And down came rusty stars
raising arms for all to shine
and low we dressed our frownfolk scars
chasing psalms and twisting twine (again)
with dreams but not quite ours
we carry ladders into night
pine the scent of cosmic wine
and then, we smoothly rise
like ancient sparks
like hilltop fire
and now, like cinder’s climb
inclined from pine to sky
we fly above
this awkward,
paradigm.