Three more weeks in the ward,

no badge. No trophy, ribbon or cup. 

And now I sit in full lotus,

gardenia wind,

buttercup sunlight skin,

no irritation. 

Hell was hell, yet 

Heaven is still a single breath

drawn sweetly between two nostrils. 

The world is on fire and not,

all at once. Time has no points. 

Who can explain the rearrangement of an all too solid reality?

I fly flags as tall as building so nearby tribes can track our victory.

My teacher is here. 

He does not speak. 

His books are lined up in the dream dimension. 

He holds our lineage. 

We’re taking over – the Magic Ones

the ones with light for fingers and megaphone third eyes. 

We’re the edge of the edge,

the tip of the top,

the beacon’s beacon. 

I’m a seer for seers. 

I’ve come to activate my fleet. 

There are no birds on my runway. 

I’ve paid every toll. 

*

*

*

Chelsea Lynn LaBate 

April 30, 2022