I can fly higher than
A sycamore tree
I can see further
Than
An eagle
high, On wing
I can smell the musty Garm
 that treads on Heavy paws
I can hear the
Tip tap
of
It's claws
I feel the shadow
Drift across my Grave
I see the blind begger
Shake his cup
His eyes sunken
Shriveled up
I can taste the

Sweet mixture
Of
Young virgins full of lust
Picking fruit
For the harvest
I feel hope slip
I feel a tear fall
Upon my lips
Salty
Yet pure
Enough to stop
Me feeling
Ashamed
For my senses
Are heighten
And I can receive
The message On high As high as
The sycamore tree.