The Alchemists

The Alchemists

route through to drowsy compliance. Cut
a groove that hugs you tight. Narcotic

cocoons charm all eyes closed, colour
their lids with everything you could dream

you want. You know you want it all. Nothing
that sunny can be bad. Yes the positive

is woven everywhere. Yes they take our stuffing
and make it gold. Yes we are they. Those shapes?

They’re ships for everyone, journeying
to the ever-distant port they summon from mists,

from clouds of desire, from the dark
of our memory. A lulling of echoed chants

directs the drummed beat, the slumbering lung,
the rhythm of waves. Permit no discord.

Allocate rapture.