The Fallen Crest

Sometimes.

There's feathers inside
Or pores lade with wide -
Fissures or wishes.
I breathe slowly and listen
To this epic utopia,
Of molten substances.
Often,
Journeying
This spunky highway
A road from Nose
Through a cute city
A host of fortes
The crest of a Fallen Chest

I pause, lower my gaze,
I watch not with my eyes
Magma flows through the Fallen Crest
Red hot magma.
It cracks into the crust
A river of molten lava
It hits the banks with this force
And riparian ripples

But it's a beautiful city
There's blue lights, and white, and hues
There's thin air,
That massages the hairs to sleep
The kind that touches and heals
Psychedelic sh*t
And shrooms with their psilocin heat
On the highways that ne'er end
Along streets lined with candy or cream
Or green mould that doesn't fold
But holds falling buds
Floating on this molten,
Golden crest
And blinking lights with hearts and -
It's here I hold my breath
On paths laced with pima cotton,
A kind like silk
With fibres white of ilk
And modals of rayon
Built like crayons that flex
And woven with cellulose
With molten prose.

We light a fire on the magma.
We burn the fire!
A burning fire.
And we -
Watch.
It burns.
It shouldn't burn.
We shouldn't watch.
It shouldn't.
It sho.....