There is a space, a room in your head, where spirits can roam- undisturbed.
They find the path from through you spine and slowly walk up the curve.
They knock three times at the base of your skull where the light shines and pools.
They enter through, find peace from snares-
and takeoff their dusted overcoats.
Some have wings, others just float, and some need neither nor.
They are related to you, through this web we weave, through this thing we call life.
Not having lived but once- we’ve collected them in all our dimensions of time.
They gently come, to disturb no one, but dwell with those they know:
We’ve forgotten them, in our conscious state, in this conscious state: our home.
Unaware, we lead these busy lives, these lives made worthy through busy.
But when the day leads into night and busy bleeds by attrition- we catch a furtive glimpse, a subconscious lift.
Because, we cannot reach the final end without the very beginning,
for that, my friend, has always been the one that’s everlasting.
The person within, the you that is all accumulating, will always be remaining.
She knows of all the creatures who come up the curve and tell you to stop spinning.