Drifting
The young boy woke up floating, effortlessly above
his own little, living, breathing, body
that could be clearly seen below
with his own intangible eyes,
drifting…
as if he were a concealed cloud or Zephyr wind
suspended within
the borders of his bedroom walls.
A sky full of galaxies and stars
were luminously enticing and inviting him
beyond the curtains and outskirts of his window
as he wondered what it might be like
to let go of his attachments to
the familiar, sleeping boy in bed,
his mother, father, family, friends,
and plastic airplane models he had
recently assembled, painted and placed on cluttered shelves
along with Mark Twain story books and seashells
around his azure blue painted
boyhood bedroom cocoon.
It was all he could do to keep from drifting through
the beckoning window, the ceiling or watchful walls
leading upwards and outwards toward some place
he thought he knew well enough
to call "Home Sweet Home" and yet,
something akin to nothingness suddenly surrounded
this new-found phantom, ghost-like, being
curiously whispering and causing him to realize
it was not yet time for him to fly and instead,
decided to surrender and reenter
that other boy's body, brain, and mind
still lying there in bed.
Before awaking to the warming glow of glorious,
Sunday morning sunlight beams and wondering,
if floating weightlessly above himself
was as real as chocolate ice cream
or nothing more than another delirious dream.
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