what are your thoughts,
your thoughts flying through?
Do they matter, what are they?
Are they silky-smooth, or blue?
say, I released my strain,
tricked senses with imagination’s grain;
of herbs of lovely musky faith,
and lies and hyper-covalent wraith.
It’s not the drug, it’s not anything,
it is you inside the cup of drifting.
Away, you go, but stay, all the same.
Not quite, for there is a subtle shifting!
you grow, you grow - slowly, a rubbery, wavy stretch.
Electric mist, pulsating, all your fruits that you must fetch.
For in-between the muck comes out, the days of twitching wretch.
And seconds, micro stings, to love, and disconnect to retch.
Paraphyletic roads we wander,
wave towards our lives, we squander.
I say, where is the thread?
Picking up the bones of dead.
so we fatten, the merry tide,
subconsciously knowing realms collide.
are your thoughts, did they sink deep?
Matter not to smile nor weep.
Yes, it matters, the book of life,
a balance hidden beneath the strife.
- Line Svendsen 22/11/2015