I sleep as the Egyptians died,
my hands abreast
and folded in a way
a mummy might have guessed
her soul to leave for afterlife.
But I don't travel far, as life
still holds me back.
The thread a-stretch I rise
to where my floating self
can catch, while looking down, a glance.
I see my empty shape, advance
up in the room
where, as in trance, I swirl
and swoon, a flapping bird,
no longer navigating by the stars,
the moon.
I bear down like a stone, as if
my heart beats me
into submission, pulls
the strings of hard earned life
and takes me back, assuring
that sleep will drown and wipe
all airborne memory.
