Forever toiling unseen gardens

Drinking nectar

The juice runs down your chin

Deeper yet into pitch I plunge

Crawling onto the muddy banks

Crossing the threshold

Nothing short of perfection

Stirring inside

Shimmering obsidian

Fractal corridors

A cosmic duality

Taking shape

Ever forthright

Spasmodic apparatus

Taking shape

Being reborn

The burning question is not if but when?

(Curving back within myself, I create again and again)

Mangled white hot iron clenched in my hand

Casting the first stone again

Aching sockets long for light

Nourished on scraps of serotonin

The burning question is not if but when?

(A sea of treachery, the wave crashes through)