Spirit.

The creativity of our bodies will endure
As we tear ourselves limb from limb each night.
I pause here; my thoughts bend to the age of sleep,
The collective consciousness dipping in and out
Of this reality into a place where no air exists,
So far removed that our breath is the only thing
Keeping our minds attached to this world.
I trace my fingertips over the silk water that shines
Like frosted glass; the thin veil between my worry
And the private universe where I can hardly stand
To go. The sky burns and ash falls onto my head,
But the rain mixes with pure light causing beautiful
Sharp and blinding drops to scratch and etch my
Skin. Meanwhile, the cool night which envelops 
My living body slowly pulls me back and into quiet
Breathing darkness. Once again I am left to question
The thousand lives we lead in that timeless mirror.
And where does that energy go when we wake?
I imagine it flying to another creature’s mirror
To torment or to kiss while trapped in their glass.
I imagine it whispering to the subconscious in
Whatever tone and mood it might desire on any
Given earthy day. I imagine it as the immature spirit
Of tangible space, taunting us in the only way
It knows how to reach us. Our waking selves too
Attached to the physical world to hear and 
Feel beyond the simplest terms. That energy
Endures, pushing us forward, urging us to find
The creativity in our skin and bones and blood
While we still possess them. Embracing a form
The universe itself will never have. To taste, 
To smell, to touch, to speak, to hear. To dream.
What creative bodies we possess. What a pleasure
And a curse which is ours to love and hate alone.
What a pleasure it is to breathe before that spirit
Burns us from our bodies and swiftly pulls us home.