Ripples of Endless Night Bring the Trip to New Heights

The inhale is most important.
The lungs filling slowly and finally
releasing the smoke.
It dances around my head,
stretching the time lapse, catching
my eyes.
Evaporating and blending into the air,
you sit and breathe.
Outside the people march in the streets
looking for a fix,
That fix that tears open the veins
polluting the blood stream,
putting the thoughts of a junkie into a clean man.
Man is not clean.
I sit in a loft,
above the people.
Their thoughts don't interest me.
But their actions and voice effect
the void I'm entering -
quicker and quicker
the walls close in, my eyes rising to the ceiling.
As if a portal, the ceiling fades
and I rise.
Inhale, Exhale.
The void is my conscious.

A bright lights blinds,
burns the socket of my eyes.
My eyes see the reality of my head
and what I think,
The light dims
and the silence transcends.
The conscious,
stares down at the body, the vessel.
Never to return.
The explanation, of the questions no one
can answer.
An eternity of what?

He rises above the city,
above the people in the streets sticking filthy needles into each others arms.
Acceptance is dropping.
Your tongue
soaking in and absorbing it.
The bloodstream,
slowly accepting
the opening doors.
The blinding white light
that illuminates the choices.
Every moment flashes in the head.
Death is the trip.
Death is the 'hallucination'
Open your eyes and stare into
the truth.
The truth that is so simple,
yet will never be uttered.
Some secrets are right there
they must be unlocked,
so exhale,
Breathe.
The answers are in your head
Not in the hate filled streets.

The people, once knew
the answers to the questions,
but enlightenment turned to hatred
because not everyone can breathe in the truth,
and simple accept.
So they poison themselves.

I rise above the world and gaze
down.
So peaceful from where I sit,
perched.
But to go into the atmosphere,
and try to accept and
live the 'classic American' life,
is to loose yourself
and restore to chemical compounds ,
to answer the questions of life.
These questions, will not suite you in death
and you cannot change
the life you've already lived.

Just as he rose, he falls
falls through all the layers of the death,
back to acceptance.
the streets look up and conscious falls
as if it was a flashback to
a vague memory,
and my eyes open,
looking down the bed at my feet
right where I always was,
right where I always will be.
The streets are silenced,
Exhale.
Death is the trip.