Rising.
Standing.
Ascending through the blessings,
grasping eighteen ribbons
weaving words in the wind.
All lost
In a miasma
Of pain:
My leg, a flaming torch.
Robbed of my peace,
I tumble into my chair,
Finding only torment.
I struggle once again to focus, to fly,
Up, out of the agony.
Soaring out of body:
flowing with the melodies,
glowing golden like a rippling liquid sunset.
Wrapping myself in the words,
dancing letters curving around me,
even as my body remains parked,
feet rooted to the floor.
