A Mystical Night

Poetry striving to be new age.

Bob Marley strums his guitar
with a sparked J tickling his tarsals;
An intense look of concentration set upon his face.
From behind the chair
I watch Bob on the wall.
I also watch the ceiling tiles fall
And breaths of dirty air filtered through
Iron lungs.
My conscious is blurred
while ceramic tiles climb.
There is a slow knocking against my ribcage.
With the breath of Christ,
my Grandmother helped me up
But the clear blackness that is she
Flashed away.
Thank you Buddha for peace
I’m allowed to breathe