The cold, crisp, clear air filled my
Lungs. The steady cadence of my feet
Were the only sound on the cold, sparkling
Pavement. I looked up and beheld the
Twinkling of a thousand distant
Galaxies and then looked to my feet
Where I beheld an infinite expanse of
Very near worlds which encompassed the
Sparkling dew which had collected on the
Grass at my feet. I returned to my impossibly large
Room, where the bed was still tossed and the air
Was still thick and hot with the drawing of
Fingers across skin and air being exchanged
Between nostrils and open, gasping mouths. The
Ghost of the exchange still lies, waiting for me
In the melancholy comfort of my bed. The petals
Of a hundred flowers have spread open at the
Soft touch of my fingers; many trees have
Shed their leaves in the gaze of my infinite eyes. Yet,
Not one has been able to lure me down from the
Mountainside which I inhabit, distant from all of
Those who so longingly call to me. Instead, they are
Now tortured by the sound of my song that I sing
To the beautiful moon who lulls me farther up the
Mountain with the passing of every night.