With the winds my body moves.
With the light, my hands draw.
All kinds of colors and musings,
phantoms and loosings,
atoms and clues begin to beam in.
My eyes see them emerge, converge, diverge.
Cosmic baths, sacred paths, made up facts.
Thank you for giving me so much.
As I let myself go, as in a trance by a drug,
my veins begin to pump above the highest top.
And all I see, all I feel, all I hear, is nothing more than light.
Source is blinding. But my pores take in, as if hungry and greedy.
The boy is happy. So happy, he does not think. He is. Forever.