Once you drop

out of your alignment and

into the space, into the void, the

baseless factory skulls of chemistry,

seasons of revolutions pass before

you are given to some kind of light;

someone must’ve mentioned something

about grace, no mind. You learn your

mind is not your friend, and in familiar

lights you can finally let go

and it becomes clear to you that gravity

can be seducing in its standards

and that maybe to fall away

from all that you know

is really a falling forward—orbiting

past the black matter—looking

back to see yourself—everyone—as mere


nothing wild but harnessed and tame;

they grow in their own beds in files

and as you drift further into the void

you lose fear; you’re not afraid

to not be such a soft, pink thing

but an exasperation of molecules, a release

from the machinery of your chemistry.

And maybe once you pass

the fear of losing who you are

or what you were

you can ground yourself in the still plasma

invading your mind

and finally you can go home,

limitless, adrift, passionless,

pain as vague as air.


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