Gossamer strands
float, hover.
Gossamer strands of cornsilk,
thin and fragile and light.
They lift you up.
You disconnect from what you know
clinical terms of catatonia
and up you fly
past the clouds and the stars and the sun
past all you thought you knew
past all you had imagined before.
And you float on gosssamer strings
along a crooked straight line.
But something insistent tugs on the strands
from below where there are cares and worries
and other awful things
and Responsibility pulls you down
on gossamer strands.