Not the fire in the belly,
but the air in the lungs.
Fire warms, then burns in passion,
flaming shame, blame, conflagration
of sin and victory.
Buddha-like compassion,
saintly wise, learned in cycles
of conscious labor, blessed bliss —
messages like this mentored, memed,
given credence in electric market,
synapse scent, inhaled essence.
This is not a sketch.
This is awakening
from deep drudging entanglement
in eiderdown.
Memory march in hideous mime.
Despair hangs heavy, grey,
Changing course, textured currents,
slowed for inhalation, beckon,
wave, invite companionship.
Bubbles surface, break
like flowers expelling seeds.
Breathe the inspiration.

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