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with the shaman's chant, I drank the vine of souls,
the ladder to the milky way, the vine of the gods—yagé.
I had read of its ancient whispers,
of roots that tangle with the spirit,
but words are but shadows
to the light it pours within.
the brew unraveled veils,
each vision a river, each breath a door—
my mind, a serpent shedding its skin.
thoughts became feathers,
life became a flame,
and in the ember’s glow,
I saw the art of being,
the brushstrokes of my name.
the vine’s embrace opened pathways,
where colors bled into new worlds,
and I, a pilgrim of the unseen,
found my voice blooming
in the soil of stars. 0 reply
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