There is a river running through your soul,
and it’s just begging you to drown.
Not die.
Just abandon yourself to its ebbs and flows,
crest waves of the non-lingual,
plumb depths you never knew you never knew.
It’ll take you places you’ve not been but dreamt of often,
forgotten between sleep and awaking.
You’ll feel more than you’ll think,
think more than you’ve thought before,
lost in the finding.
And you will make war
and make love to yourself.
The same difference.
For lovers: memory, sensory input, output, lulling you down.
For foes: rationale, vain to break the surface.
And for companions, you'll have schools of thought like schools of fishes.
Existing as you let yourself be sped along.
And it’s the phantom touch of god’s cool hand
that occupies your mind while your body is going under.