as a child i had a sense of before i only a tenant in this world
i dreamt, i remembered a place of light and freedom of flying weightless without a care recurring reveries of changeless drifting
but as i got older my astral excursions turned to thin air much to hearts despair i fell weighted to this terrestrial sphere by thickened accumulations of hard niches and obscurations a delicate spark burdened by sheaths of gnawing reason engulfed in brutish struggle
at times i obsessed aching to go back from where i came maybe stepping in front of a speeding car desperate to get home where the dead live it up
cadaverous child a strewn tangle of little limbs broken on a country highway who made a hard sacrifice for a bigger life where the very sensation of existence was a floating ecstasy like an atomized cloud puff
where the dead are not dead at all but enchanted children living with faces like suns on the other-side of the looking glass feet to the stars in the arms of heaven