“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