Tearing my hair and raking my scalp with blunt nails,
quasi-coherent, halfway between sleep and waking,
I hear my voice beg you to help me break through
the glass ceiling, smash it like sheet-ice - open a way
to this chill, glaucous cavern on the reverse side of light.
You do not speak, but I hear my voice answer itself
in the interests of reason: The ceiling is inside your mind,
a chimera: there is no glass to be shattered, no ice.
The nightmarish knowledge devolves into grotesque motifs:
my skull is trepanned and no barrier stands between me
and ether, between day and night. But the emptiness
starts in my head and continues forever, in a soul-
numbing parody of flight, beyond the glass sky.