Born of Spiritual Spasm

Born of Spiritual Spasm We can travel mindfully as with source light, We can project our sullen spirits outward, To a timeless harbinger, born of spiritual spasm, Left invisibly on the shiny star of suburban Formica, And now we are flying through the pull of the maelstrom, Traversing cosmically toward a bristling bicuspid, The standard source, The standard ending point, Where tired eyes find solace in the lateral moonlight, Where trusted voices lend understanding in the sinewy shadows, Asleep now as the Colorado dead, Sleeping and sunken now in their timeless tombs, Alive as the everlasting sleep, this girly sleep, As it lurches like a ghost gazelle into the soft entrances, Lunging and leaping into the dark, abandoned residences, Coldly forgotten amidst the green serpentine vines, We can sense the emerging timeless harbingers, We can recognize the unending, standard sources, Of the bristling bicuspids buried with the Colorado dead, Sleeping and sunken now in the lateral moonlight.