The shaman trains as hanged man in the darkness,
Suspended in a chrysalis of inwardness
Suspended in a chrysalis of inwardness
To invert what he believed in, about himself,
To learn how the opposite is equally true.
It's not to die the hero's ego death, but know
Who he is, from the other side, sonar, not flight,
The path — before all the bones that crack to the sound.
He's wrapped like a snake Caduceus around the pole
Because he has remembered himself, and he wants
Nothing more than to hold the center that can't hold,
For all is love, at the end of each silver cord.
So the spiral snake wends the needle, to recall
As illusion the error ways, where the not love,
The golden dream, could finally be realized
Via one's chosen hallucinatory loop,
Maelstroms we call them, because it is always fun
To be the victim, suffering is what we choose
Every time. Is it a sin to say we prefer it?
How could we not choose lives of gluttony lust and
Purgatory, for the sheer joy of it, to see
How far away fair love can appear to be
Like we would compass the stars for a sense of awe.
All the vastness and perfection and cohesion
Love extends, what better vantage point than below?
