“Alive”

is

just

a disturbed kind of “Dead”

I hear the tinnitus open up a half-world

of little elves

and fairies,

soaring about

around my ears,

and I see

- in the migraine corner

of my eye -

the twinkling

of little brittle wings

as the words

of the common world

rearrange

their appearances

in my morse-like interpretations,

flaking out of rhyme and reason,

leaving but a random sequence

of phonemes,

like the glimmer

of springtime birch leaves

through sunlit foliages,

or the hypnotic rippling

of shallow water

around the boulders of a tiny stream

high up in an old northen forest;

my perception liberating me

of my bodily shackles,

allowing my suspension

in an out-of-time,

out-of-body

shaman ascension,

mirrored all around

by the long-lost looks

on the disintegrated faces

of friends and foes

of the past