like dead rising we wake
from our slumbers as drunk moths
stumble into the cobwebs of our pasts
and forge small beginnings

forget about simple words while we
combine complex meanings until we are
philosophers and mad magicians intent on
dissolving the right amount of joy and

creating potions in underground laboratories
where we drift out of consciousness for a sense of

a soft reality, like the sound of robins in spring

a sense of security in the way things
were always meant to be

and instead of falling deep into a nothingness
we don't yet have words for, we soar