I laid on the cold hard floor,
feeling the chops of air
as they spun from the ceiling,
escaping the mass of my body;
finding refuge in my arch,
my natural resistance
to flatness.

And I was watching,
stalking myself from a distance,
but all that was seen
was my cardiovascular essence,
pulsing on the ash-ridden floor,

until I cascaded,
washing;
falling below to My Earth's
very core.

I was watching and laying,
and falling,
but when all had occurred, I remembered:
My Self is not merely a body,
a skeleton breathing out words,
but a soul and a spirit and presence,
and that is what ought be preserved.