Strands of green ectoplasm
ensure my isolation
from the mortal world.
The cool spaces open up
to my inner sight;
I feel the triumph
and despair of
a thousand human struggles
scrawled in geometric signs.
No one can see them
but I,
aided by the rays
of a midnight sun.
Scraps of my tattered clothing
dissolve and fall to earth.
Like my toes they touch nothing,
disappearing with a burst.
Diamonds on the ceiling
beam me stories of times past;
I absorb them with my palms,
and turn the tales to ash.
I approach an arching window
Flecked with age and rust.
The panes of crystal gone,
All remains is earth and must.
Inching forward,
forms blur about me,
are born,
and expire:
mortals, human insects
move quickly to their deaths.
The sky becomes a walkway,
the brick, a stone roof
raining fine silt and crystal
as I draw near to the crimson porthole.
Suddenly the curved sigil
humming inaudibly
pulls me from this place.
I am shot into the heavens,
bearing scrolls compiled
of the humans' clumsy grace.
@d-pend on 6/5/18