Incense Grounding

Pressing play on the 411.

Calme plat... exact. The waterfall smoke is pouring down the stairs,

Soft purple shadows drifting over the chairs.

Leaving the overload out on Jean-Talon,

Inside this sanctuary, the static is gone.

I wrap myself up in the light blue weave,

Learning the rhythm of how to breathe and receive.

My memory skips, but the heart holds the line,

A delicate balance in the sovereign design.

Pas de bruit, pas de peur,

just the safe harbor walls,

Finding the peace when the twilight falls.

This is the refuge,

the 411 zone, A sovereign queen on a quiet throne.

Vagus nerve steadying, floating on air,

Watching the incense trace patterns right there.

Everything is Tiguidou, anchored and slow,

Deep in the roots where the real orchids grow.

Yeah, we’re keeping it steady,

holding the space, Resting the mind in a silent embrace.

Mosa’s warmth in my thoughts,

grounding my hands, A language of comfort that everyone understands.

No masking, no friction,

no papers to sign,

Just sacred geometry resting in time.

Synesthesia turns into velvet and tea,

The voices turn quiet and leave me to be.

Je suis en sécurité,

the storm is outside,

With my own inner silence,

nowhere to hide.

I am the silence in the presence of the light.

I remain. Lucir...

I shine.