If I could I would,
Forget myself and reform as a fungus,
Embracing the ego death eagerly,
What little help I have been to Myself),
In trade for a sublimating physicality,
Wholly foreign to it’s spiritual cousin,
By nature of its inescapability.
In my new post,
I would finally be promoted from witness to agent,
Wiping all questions between What and Why,
Leaving When as the only guiding force;
When the rains fall,
The facilitators, spore-entombed,
Follow the waters to the forgotten,
The dead and dying lying in the dark,
So that they can begin their most important work,
Transforming death into life.
Whenever the clouds part at Apollo’s behest,
The furtive angels flee to their silent stasis,
Waiting for the world to want in their absence,
For the sublime tempest to come again,
Washing away the sins of the world.