I turned from the road of the faithless mind
and walked onto the dense path of thickets
that grow bright and green (or brown) and unwind
my mental engagements in white pickets:
Wolf tickets were sold, and I bought the punch –
or my head was born in it from the start –
either way I was drunk – the vomit stench
of my false words putrefying my heart:
False thoughts, false dreams, false self all in the swirl
of the machine of this culture and time,
until I tripped myself and fell to hurl,
breathless on the fake grass, I spit this rhyme:
Tough thorns and spines they scrape my ashen skin,
but the roses' open blossoms clear wave me in.

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