Shift

I’m holding on;
my fist 
grips sticks 
for a fire.
Keeper of the temple, 
stone,
breath,
and mire;
I accidentally became a bog hag, 
shrouded by a glamour, 
dizzy from smoke and lyre.

Shh, it’s starting. 
Can you feel the shift? 
Few can 
Fly 
Inside 
Try
As have I 

I pass by
the pair of giants’ grave
and it’s not a grave at all
but an altar 
of loose soil, 
rabbit bone, 
melted glacier 
beneath stone. 
Their breath mingles 
with mushroom threads 
from the same source
Returned.

I’ll find you where 
the nothing 
meets the sky.