Rolling
Being this stillness within a whirling brain,
detached, as thoughts boil over,
watching from a 10 mile high view.
All these years chasing ghosts;
they’re all living with me now,
because that's what ghosts do
when you kill them.
I was aghast of myself,
dark times loading bullets behind closed eyes,
believing I would be always buried alive.
Resurrection is for the catatonic,
me, I got hit between the eyes,
sucker punched.
Life and death came together
in a field of non-existence,
and yet only there
did consciousness bloom.
Could be I’m just a clearer sky,
one still rolling over graveyards
where all the spent volcanoes
simmer on -
nevertheless still rolling.
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