slowly, but (version 2)

surely it pushes up ends this progress wends its way from somewhere deep within the “belly” of the soul’s secret the innermost being ascending into dust

it’s all well and good, but that sort of thing doesn’t go down well in these here parts all you can hear are the parts, that same old same old melody tripping down the memory swells of longing and what if? there is an answer and i asked all the wrong questions until it was all out in the open square of the city every crack a door for roots or stems pushing their little rhizomatic noses into every empty space until they are fully entangled like your locks the right question is a key, that makes me whole or even holy because healing is a miracle that starts small who knows when?

it begins when we stop begging