Melange from the mountains

You aren’t writing.

A snake bit me

It followed me across the Pyrenees

The snake of opposites.


It wants me to achieve

Coniunctio oppositorum

Or balance

Or perhaps it is just here

To play the game of layers and cards

To chop away at a rock whose shape i have not yet recognised

A rock which is by far not ready to yield

A fig tree which is certainly not yet coming to fruition

Even though time is slow and

Age feels old

Even though it is borrowed.

Feeling old as a sign of borrowing life

And face

Instead of entering into the heart of the rock

And finding the snake


Reminded of the planet of both vision and delusion

Trying to evade the grounded, suffocating signs of time.

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