When people deep in thought
Ask with theory sought
"What comes of us in death?"
"Do we take wings like our breath?"
It's then time to say; fate makes us her play
With no ordinary stage nor script on page
Act one a prophet in clouds
Act two a body in shrouds
The theme to love the soul as god
And love for body evilly odd
The plot to hate the ****** norm
And raise the soul to immortal form
So strange a scene to me
With many a vain soliloquy
Questioning life from it's birth
In scriptures lacking mirth
And placing mind over matter
For teatime with the mad hatter

Please, come and hold my hand
And walk across the shining sand
Feel it's softness on your feet
And sunshines loving heat
Leave your clouds until tomorrow
Then you won't have to borrow
Spiritual bread from the dead