28 sunrises since the last 23rd,
5 to go till the first spring moon.
The movement of the moniker is the easiest of the motions made this month.
A cycle of clarity, allowing the chaos to encircle without calling corners, to clean out cobwebs, reconnect synapses.
Pain allowed to be perceived. Thoughts unwanted, thawed. Sights blindered seen.
Sober, stone-cold, starring sunward to survive, surrounded by sharks.
Weed wafting everywhere. Wounded soul soldiers. Shops, sky signs, songs circumambulating my senses.
Anger, regurgitating repressed patterns, possession repossessed. I’ve been excommunicated twice already, third time’s a charm.
Fingering perishing flesh, aware for the first time in years, far from perfect, enmeshed in filigreed failure, in love with death, for ah pook’s sake.
This is me in the garden wailing at old gods, gnashing, grinding gears, giving up the game, gone.
Good morning, good night, good bye to the 33rd degree.
The real work begins in 5 sunrises, the first spring moon, 33 nights passed since the last 23rd.
© EschatonLife 23