It’s time to fly, 

Like a bird, 

My wings becoming free. 

 

Stepping among a strange curdled current, 

A sea beneath, 

Arms just out of reach. 

 

For in the sea, 

Of mind and open eye, 

My world falls dim. 

 

I guess there is, 

Another way, 

To die and be free again. 

 

Like a bird, 

A Seashell hollow, 

A sacred branch beneath yellow skin. 

 

The walled off world,

Half closed shutter, 

In a light this lighning shadow.

 

A show of had, 

Or wish me not, 

Forgotten streams of being. 

 

Curdled round, 

A finger thin, 

A baby born eternal.