Lateral Bloom

After the trip, I realized that
a voice in my head had wanted me dead.
With body atomic; interact and detach
from the sinister thing that spat in my ear.

I felt that the sour was the glaze on my skin;
the filth that would coat me on days of my sins.
And with it applied, no one could see
enough of a draw to stay closer to me.

Then came the outside, then came the shift.

During the trip, the laughter of friends
held measure to needles that endlessly prod.
While patterns were fighting to entice and entrance,
my self-addled self could only recoil.

Then more than now was the loathing of self
yet the walls with their pulse was all that we felt.
The constant was buzzing, inviting the eyes
to follow the flutter that waits in its guise.

There was the matter, at hand but forgotten.

Before the trip, I had sprawled on my bed,
drowning beneath the need for another.
Insides were panicked, sullen and doubt...
and then we ingested the pockets of spark.

Eventually, I...

Laid under glass between me and the moon,
indulging in normalcy with a lateral bloom:
I found I learned little and took nothing away,
as I came back to center still shy and afraid.

Center was here, at heart in hard wood
that I've settled and burned myself into for good.
As straits were less dire and the room remained still,
I was becoming bed-ridden and useless until...

... When?

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