I write when I am
distressed, when I
don't understand, when I
desire rest. I write when I wish,
I wish I were struck
by anything moving
fast, of adequate mass
that it might jolt me out
of this existence and into
a dimension which doesn't
quite exist, as it's residing in
thought, that fifth dimension.
It's calling me, calling to me;
Calling out my name,
Or do I call to it?
Wishfully.
I don't have to try
to think softly after
a roaring voice rips
through my mind, it
is just a thought that
crops up sometimes.
The sound is thought
which drifts, fear slips
and I know I'll stand
between sky
and sand when this
is all over.
Ashes to
ashes,
Dust
to dustpan.
Sweep me up.