Mr. Freedman

A man walks away from his home, his family lays asleep
unknown.

They call to him what seems like from within his dreams
though he knows there is no medium to reach them in.


To long he held the misery within of doubt and chaos and
suffering.
 

Perhaps the night holds more comfort then the quilt and
things his wife decorated themselves in.


Perhaps the wind through the trees holds more answers then
his books and books of binary digits.


How blind he was only a few minutes on and now how vibrant
and real he had become.

He loses
his touch and feel receiver, his environment is robotic to him and only he stands
biologic
 




A beam of light rolls down to him, like the red
carpet choosing only a few


He is lifted up, then engulfed in plasma his skin lucid


He is home with the likeminded, he’s returned to his state of light
awoken from the oppressive matter that suffocated him for the length of a suspended second.

welcome back Mr. Freedman