Friendly drinks with a party of strangers,
concocted to poison one’s composition,
led me to cold wet grass under some stars.
My figure sank deep into the dark horizon,
I twisted skyward to breathe in bleak cosmos.
This is how I stumbled upon my new religion.

Awake now, I lived in accord with this religion.
God’s terrific eyes stared from the faces of strangers;
otherworldly airships descended from the cosmos.
I was becoming unstuck from reality’s composition—
drifting further from the embrace of its horizon,
my head was surrounded by a new catalog of stars.

Those I’d left behind saw me among those stars,
heard me preach the gospel of my new religion,
and guessed what lay for me over the horizon.
My mother delivered me to the hands of strangers
in the tender hope of restoring my composition—
burned to ashes by a zealous grip of the cosmos.

My rebirth lent odd harmony to the cosmos.
The spectacular fiery dissolution of stars
echoes within my addled earthly composition—
quiet raging prophets singing of a dusty religion.
The dark road is filled with us dazed strangers,
making pilgrimage beyond the whispering horizon.

Pilgrims voyaging to private fantastic horizons,
departing this plane for personal cosmoses,
find themselves lost within pockets of strangers
and sly panhandlers offering maps to the stars;
ceaseless dreamers marking faces with religion.
Disinterred jugglers and their sad composition.

I awoke with a pen, before an alien composition.
Taking small sideways steps to trace the horizon,
someone enlightened me on how they do religion.
Once more I found a curtain break in the cosmos—
then felt the reaching pull to familiar stars,
and delivered myself to the hands of strangers.

The cobweb composition of the cosmos
entangles the horizons of all stars.
Behold the religion of strangers.