Push Down & Turn

A lightning-storm, they tell me, in my squish

That periodically attacks my sense,

Uprooting my reality's frail fence,

Is prepping for an epic crispy dish;

If I do naught –and that indeed's my wish–

Insanity shall reap the recompense

I pay with darknened mind and blood's dispense.

They tell me this, and I tell them: "Go Fish!"

-

For I don't want a drip or drop or pop,

Or anything that might then alter minds.

The Everything inside my Grey, the crop

That's grown and that I've sewn together here,

Has culminated in –What heart reminds–

My Soul, the creature that but death may stop.