There is a gate for me to know
I drift there when the world feels slow.
A move the daylight never sees.
to breathe in deep with unseen trees.
Where air is older than my time,
a quiet pulse begins to chime.
From root to heart, from heart to flame,
yet somehow answers know my name.
My heart is still, no words are said,
laced with ghosts of longing tread.
The silent dweller I’ve become,
scatteredness returns to one.
Thus, when I float to secret lands,
-where silent whispers time expands-
red vines connect me to sky,
and the root of me remembers why.
I.A.m
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