Our reason is soon tested

By germs of gas

As we softly seethe among the flames

The nightmares of our pasts will awake

To hunt us through our older haunts

The death of our hearts soothes

The dearth of our souls

We lie

Drunk, unable to lie

In truth is ruth, but also


Maybe suffering is first, or truth


Because the poem is another

Of my seeds

Another to grow into mushrooms

Of inhaled gas.