Open to Lift

Much much on my mind. I'll try to briefly expel everything here.


Please forgive me if at times you find my hand in my pocket of the past
Shrouded, shifting through the lost numbers and forbidden catch phrases
I'm tempted to find that mischief now, in the blooming hour
And all apologies if I can't see as straight upon your conditioning as I should,
Having lived it on my own, months prior, though now ready to give up the restrictions
Because past translates simply to chains, whether on neck, wrists, or ankles
Worst being the neck, giving you stifled vision of what's in front of you
Covering the fact that we were born with all required instinct
Knowing now that those karma carriers we spoke of
Are truly ourselves, for a past time
Past-times we've tricked ourselves into
All in harmony with our gentle aura
Soon summoning the depth of incision to the hand
Rotting off the servitude
In this crumbled restatement of what's pinned to her bedroom wall:
None will remain for certain. None that came offered to stay.
Any flux in motion lost inertia to the varying festive decay.
Wisdom builds craters while the ministry caters