The Garden

Thanks, Iron Butterfly

Any time after the witching hour

you can find me wide-awake in slumber.

Pulsing with violet and green lights,

resonating with hymns of Enochian choirs,

inhabited by the children of Mythos is 

the Garden.

Nestled snugly between

first and tenth dimension,

Filled with brainstorms, purple rain, and

kamikaze cacophonies of pleasurable pain,

rivers of molten star-shine surrounded by

sun-spotted flower children underneath 

Jack’s beanstalk is

the Garden.

Any time after the witching hour

you will find me chasing the iron butterfly