The mind points out it’s own precision

The mind points out it’s own precision 
The pen tip presses upon the page
The blank sheets are washed and dried
as bleeding crimes in tangled lines
Are hung to dry with dripping rage

The mind draws lines with its own decisions
The desperate drama of dreams debate
The Carpet rolls out the curtains rise
The Callosum opens its Myelin eyes
As actors weave axioms upon the stage

The mind circles round its own confusion
The neural nodes nap within the cage
The fasciculus finds and hooks the hive
The fissure formed from space and time
Is stitched to heal with macrophage….

….the ritual bell, the wafting smell of
Burning sages in prizm cells,
Hanging from the dangling nous,
The heart bares scars from tearing youth
From the of searing truth of heaven and hell…

~Charleen Johnston 7-18-24