A lock of dead pink hair
Stuck in my little room,
Me and your pictures and my thoughts.
A daydream occurs…
With the wind through our hair and
Our arms locked around our waist,
We lift weightlessly off the ground.
Rising toward the heavens, sinless and brave,
We cast off our bodies for the masses of power and greed,
Spirit again, the plan is once more ours to reveal,
Unmistakable in this form, impossible to the flesh.
Impossible to the flesh…
I awake in a sweat, still half entranced,
But I see your dead pink hair and remember
Who and what I am… but I can’t remember
The plan, and all I can feel is this flesh.
It’s hot so I strip and look around my tiny little room for a comfort that doesn’t exist here.
I lay on the ground and stare at the ceiling, picturing your face in the texture
Of the walls. I wish that my room had a
Door or even a window, fore I so miss
The blue of the skies
(the blue of your eyes)
the air is thick here and I remember the
freedom of weightlessness,
the intrigue of being complete.
I bloom from within and a realization
Slaps me surprisingly across the soul.
The room can not hold me, because there is no room.
There is only this plan…