Ya couldn't call me restless
but nah, ya couldn't call me lucid either
Floating on a benzo-pretty philharmonic cloud.
Sharp bitey thinglings softened
they swim backward in confusion
and this Kwan Yin, floating freely
leaves them gasping on the sand.
She regards dark circles, smiling
She regards her injuries, smiling
She regards her troubles, smiling
All around, a pinkish haze
Nay, the chemicals won't will trip her
catch her painted skirt
and tear silk
to be jolted from her reverie
is never to be told.
This she knows, but now she floats
for she must have tangible proof...
that Reality is not real
and the text is set in BOLD.
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