Birth pains of astral projections

I can almost see shimmering faery
As I recline on moss
But there isn't enough primrose
There are only wishes in
A hidden forest

I can almost see ghosts
As I shiver on icy floorboards
But Amelia is asleep in winter
There are only prayers
In a secret house

I was lost by the wayside
Amidst the groans of a tired time

There is nothing for me here
The tales of the flute by the fire
A stroll through a somber evening
Smoke enticing from their pipes… pipes
And the honourable visions
Of a pulseless mind

Death comes in an instant
If you like
But Amelia may be waking soon

When I sleep, I can't pull myself away,
Yet.
But I know there are mansions out there,
Maybe on Saturn or Mars or Mercury or Luna,
Maybe on Saturn or Mars or Mercury or Luna,
…Maybe this is a clue.

I'd never been washed ashore
Or seen the droll night before
My body vanished
I hovered in the concourse
Of the court of thousands
Of yellow asphodel
It hurts remembering the fragrance of Heaven.

We lived in the rowans, avoiding mad water
Spoiling our children with tea and mushrooms
Early in the autumn as we slept by the oven
Someone sent a shape who tore the house apart.

Our bond shattered, I was drawn away
I was caught praying the shade.

Recently, I went back to my door
And breathed…
It was love filtered through yellow paraffin
We pushed with all our might
For you…