A Panic Attack Is to Cope with The Truth, Whatever That Is

I awoke in a panic garden,
the flowers all electric—I hesitated to collect them
but knew I’d instantly regret it. There my hand remained hovering,
for a second, and then I snatched it. Strange, vignette vision—
after a fashion—narrowed me in on the thing that caused it: as if to mean
enough sensory. Amazing how startling it was and could be—especially
if decisions have’t made it. It’s tense, which explains the tenses. But really.

I turned and turned and turned and turned, too, the vignette following, delayed—
bounding from one turn to another as I sought I don’t know yet, but could I?

I’d never want to be there,
but I did meet God. Precisely God.
I shouldn’t be here, I said and
God agreed, but knew it could've possibly happened
but hadn't planed it.