Birth Pains of Astral Projection

I can almost see the shimmering faerie as I recline on moss

But there isn't enough primrose

There are only wishes in a hidden forest

I can almost see ghosts as I shiver on icy floorboards

But Amelia is asleep in winter

There are only prayers in a secret house

I was lost by the wayside

Amidst the groans of a tired time

There is nothing for me here

The tales of the flute by the fire

A stroll through a sombre evening

Smoke enticing from their pipes, pipes

And the honourable visions of a pulseless mind

Death comes in an instant, if you like

But Amelia may be waking soon

When I sleep, I can't pull myself away yet

But I know there are mansions out there

Maybe on Saturn, or Mars, or Mercury, or Luna

Maybe on Saturn, or Mars, or Mercury, or Luna

Maybe this is a clue

Maybe this is a clue

I'd never been washed ashore, or seen the droll night before

My body vanished, I hovered in the concourse

Of the court of thousands of yellow asphodel

It hurts remembering the fragance of Heaven

We lived in the rowans, avoiding mad water

Spoiling our children with tea and mushrooms

Early in the autumn, as we slept by the oven

Someone sent a shape who tore the house apart

Our bond shattered

I was drawn away

I was caught praying in the shade

Recently, I went back to my door, and breathed

It was love filtered through yellow paraffin

We pushed with all our might, for you