Walking out of This World

Twenty Six

I won't soon forget my family mixing with shelter folks, handshakes, hugs shared, chatter washing down bites of food. And, then there was Grace, mixing with smiles and assurances that my contribution to the shelter's mission is important. They went home happy with all the pieces of our daily puzzles being put together.

Now day is ending with my head resting on a welcoming pillow amidst the quiet buzz of other voices finding clean sheets that give a welcomed relief from the uncertainties and dangers lurking in the cold night where there is no home.

My eyelids are falling, like curtains covering...covering the recognition of sense stimulated mind. Other voices beg to be heard, voices that speak about hidden things in other corners of mind, gathering behind dreams.

"Party on!" Bodies writhing and mixing with shadows. Soft lips puff green haze... slithering into waiting lungs and gathering into swirling illusions.

"Party on!" Bodies mixing, pleasure streams gathering them into the green, tumbling into another world. Words and shapes that once drew familiar pictures are melting into their frames. Hands, extending from a sea of arms, reach for what is hidden in green fog.

A great clock stands in the center of the writhing crowd. Its hands fold into the numbers and refuse to mark time.

An undulating portal, swelling, surging out of a green womb. Green waves push pleasure's river, a great woman giving birth to the illusion that all the music is held in twisting brains and writhing souls.

A great green cloud, a mothering phantasm, gathers worshipers to her bosom to drink from her well and couple with its essence.

She swoops up a thousand papers and throws them to the four winds. Black gowns, hiding clattering bones, chase the white sheets and cram them into blank screens. There hands fly over giant keyboards. "No! Lock them in before all reason escapes our grasp!" I scream.

Bodies fly out of yawning rooms, flesh dripping from their bones. Old Man Death joins the dance in green fields where he finally claims their warping pictures, dissolving into the great green mother.

"Who will call them out?" A voice from the Never Ending Way echoes. "Who will call death's name.? Who will shine the light on the woman and reveal the source of her green portal—death?"

A light is glowing, the neon threads are playing new music. "I will!"

Is that my voice flowing out of the tapestry?

One is standing, one hand stretching to the sky and the other grasping I AM's hand, the tapestry pulsing with their power.

Another curtain is ripped by two great hands. The ground begins to shake.

Sun light reaches through an oblong window and rustles my brain into waking. Eyelids flip open. My hand reaches to shield my eyes from the morning wake up call.

I have to call Jenkins!