If not for words, would we still have questions?
Could we think, if our language was lost?
I sense a change already, falling backwards,
forever plummeting from a higher elevation,
too afraid to open my eyes.

If not for breath, would we still have air?
Will life grow and change with a lack of oxygen?
As my lungs expand, my eyelids raise slowly,
but as always, I see only what I wish to see,
too afraid to face the ****** of truth.

The moon is my ghost, as I land softly
I leave no footprints on its cratered surface.
One question at a time, one breath after the other.
Though I am no magician, I sense there is magic:
There is life all around me, holding me up.