Silly little floater,
a ghost memory,
words of silence
dissipated into my head
like melted goo;
it wants to knock
but it's been forgotten
and the door hinges are rusty,
old, practically archaic;
it floats by my eyes
and I could almost taste
the sting and tang of what happened
yet it's nothing but a floater,
a little mix up in the view,
nothing to remember.

It feels like i'm floating on thin air,
spinning,
drifting.
Wonder if i'm really here.
Shattered glass
makes stars that line the sky,
in every way,
and I don't even question why.
I'm a floater.
Floating on by.
I'm a drifter,
and I don't know why.
But I'm staring up
at this black glass sky,
that will welcome me at times.
Telling me it never really changes,
night is always night.
Cold yet warm,
and I don't know why.
Why I stare at this sky,
and call it a beauty.
Call it a saint.
Call it a home,
every now and then.
Why I float,
between it's stars,
that in my eyes,
don't seem that far.
Why I drift,
in it's cold warmth,
that hugs me,
embracing my inner all.
And I never ask why,
the cold warm sky,
is my stop sign,
while yet so vast.