Posted: 28 April 2017 | Journal Home
A cult is shinning in my eyes.
White robed, despondent figure stands,
wondering how I have been lost.
Meditation no longer works,
grey visitors no longer listening.
Without the beacon they can't land.
Celestial lights move frantically.
Satellites, planes, meteors once called
but now ships from dimensions beyond.
White robed, despondent figure speaks
in tongues unrecognizable to sanity
or reason. Then silence when I walk.