The suppression of logic dissolves
those awesome woes, submerged like stones
and perhaps there blooms an awakening
through the needled base, that threshold
where the flesh remembers itself,
remembers how to become again.
Fool me no more.
I recognize the edge now, the ledge,
that familiar precipice where I've kept
my long vigil. The drop has no power here.
I have stood in this shape long enough
to know the geometry of my own return.
Everything dwells within:
the meat chunks and the greened dreams,
the extracted leaves, the craved beginnings
all spiraling through a senseless continuum,
a becoming that asks nothing of meaning.
And still I am myself.
Still the same withdrawals circle back.
Still the substances speak their simple language,
and I choose—or choose again
reaching for something better than
this broken symmetry of staying.
▶️ 3Speak