Intointerzone

Everything moving

In slow, small waves.

My consciousness slipping

Right out the top of my skull.

Leaving my body light,

And empty.

Like a carapace,

Or a catacomb.

My spirit clings to the idea

Of my body,

Like a child

To his blanket.

Afraid of an existence

Less comfortable.

Detatch

I drift to something elses

Accord.

A spector.

A ghast.

Stained by a past life.

Colored almost visible.

F r e e