She who would move freely to heaven

suffocates in the lazy, charcoal clouds.

A misguided perspective

searching for a line among dots.

Any line will do and it shows.

 

Pull me out of my skull

where the thoughts tumble and

crash onto the ground like glass figurines

of old lovers and family.

 

A piece of heart for each leaves

a small sum remaining

but the metaphysical may reproduce

or re-grow or

maybe heal itself.

 

No,

let go of the self and

breathe.

 

Ascend.