I spoke with my soul in a Fox Vegas bathroom mirror.

She was of old cloth

cut from a time when tempestuous gasses formed the Pillars of Creation 

wearing sweeping tails of ancient light

shaped by stellar winds which carved out the Cosmic Cliffs of the Carina Nebula 

had summited the three-light-years-tall Mystic Mountain pinnacle

had contemplated form, with The Sculptor, of Saturn’s Hexagon Cloud.

Mycelia lay, hidden in the black hole of my eye

older than the stardust that makes up my human form.

 

I felt the age of my soul reflected inside the puddle of lights district.

it was soft and sweet

warmly bendable, like thick sugary caramel

it wanted to talk

to pass a gift of love through the fogged up mirror dimension

was patient, but didn’t want me to leave for my Meteor Sisters by the starry bonfire, as it had things to tell me.

I told her I’d be back

we’d speak again, when dripping emerald serum, I find myself alone

wandering along sacramental green blue highways

where science and the spiritual overlap, become one and the same

psychonaut exploration through the infinite rekindling connection of serotonin 2A receptors.