My bouquet of symptoms took root in alcoholism. I displayed these blossoms to few. I thought I could keep these problem posies to myself. No need to worry, everyone has a bit of manure in their lives; mine will hardly seem strange. Planted in addiction, things grew in a dramatic way. Pruning became unworkable; drastic measures were required. Uprooted and exposed, these virulent stalks created the need for help from better gardeners than I. Thinned and repotted, these character traits have fruited with many a lovely harvest, none of which could have happened had I been left in the family plot.
Make your mind a womb you can return to.
There are rules about breaking rules.
You can do it this way, but must not that way.
Cross this line and you get dragons;
cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.
Beneath the reflective surface of law
I have found many shoals and sandbars;
rocks and outcroppings,
layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.
I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the
same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles,
or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.
Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from
and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.
You see this investigation is just another thing
from under that sea.