I’m on my way back from a dark journey.
My outlook has turned itself upwards;
I can taste a fresh scent in my throat.
On my journey I must have stepped in pungent puddles,
though I can’t now recall where they lay.
It was a gradual shading of my mind,
re-working what I imagined to be natural,
turning me to tics found bleak by others.
Only now, when spasmodic happiness returns,
do I see the cloud-like tendrils of my journey,
and propelled by a lingering ink that stains my lungs,
moments jump towards grins, spontaneous mantras,
instead of grim asthma.