Scraping with an instrument designed not for dreams,
But for biological matter:
Flesh, in all its states of decay.
This barrel of dimethyltryptamine and steel,
Corroded into rainbows amongst the rust,
Flowers of mysterious crystals spring from the holes,
Some, like desert roses – determined,
To be something,
Others, breaking like dead lillies,
Desperate to become nothing.

Your privilege brought you inertia,
And you clung to it with pale hands.
Now, while you scrape with them,
Your hands become full of blood again.

The steel gives up its colours,
Like a relief map of the mountain,
We have been climbing,
But will never see.
Visibility shrinks,
Until we forget,
As lovers forget the sincerest of promises.

Do we take the barrel,
Or leave it on the mountain?
Covered in jewels of our substance,
And still yielding beneath the rust,
Some secrets that might just change everything.

As the weather becomes insufferable,
I pursue the only course of action there is:
To climb back inside the barrel,
And roll down the mountain,
I am bound to forget.