Hunt the greats, alert them yourself.
You’re after their tiresome glow.
The want to be one,
Oh i’ve perused you before.
The ultimate luster, to be admired.
The prettiest abalone shell to only hold smoke and salt.
And somehow I dont’ blame the vessel and I see the sage grow tiresome and pale but the palo santo sits still. It’s perfumed fragrance only perfectly lit before flame, a native enticement indeed.
And I wonder where I stand between the vessel, cleanser, and self-esteem appeaser.
No Man’s Land.
But unity in threes.
I love those venn diagrams.
More accurate.
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