I died, I think,
amid white winter blossoms
and fragile lacy things.

Then white became yellowed
and flesh became sallow,
and blossoms were traded for spiderwebs,
but not the gossamer kind.

Things got stranger, then,
when I felt my eyelids flutter
open to autumn twilight.
There was a hurt woman,
and I think I did it.

Those first few days
of breathing golden air
really got to me,
and my eyes never stopped tracing
the lines between disconnected objects.

It's funny; smelling time,
knowing futures and eating thoughts,
but I have quite a taste for dreams.

It's the bizarre human element
that I never quite shook off,
always drawing lines
and giving everyone
Christ's perfectly stippled jawline.

There is no reason,
I've learned,
but I like it all more now
knowing everything and nothing,
and knowing everything and nothing
is really only nothing.