The door

Who knows which is the good one? Crystal hands. Stormy voice.
Empty mind.
The water was clear and we both decided to drink. Despite the poisoned and unidentified drops.
How to know the real path? Purple pills, higher vibration.
Disatisfaction.
The fire showed us the throes of the original pueblo, and we hear the wind crying at at midnight.
Where can we find them? Lights gone. Days end.
And the Lizard comes.
The air kissed our skin as if we were leaves.
Nonconformity.
Mirrors, shadows. The echo of the Shaman resonates and swims in the lagoon of thoughts. The dream still germinating, but, you know my friend, we both know.
The door chose us.
Time is sand slipping through our fingers. And we are just mirrages of nowhere.
Oh please, we'd better light a cigarret and enjoy the silence of our bodies. They won't ever hear our blind souls wandering.

 J.M