Pull me close in arms.
Mystical shaking from astral exploration. Tend my physical body while I fly.
Because, the reading of an old text alights my spirit almost too easily.
A mystical proclivity circumscribed in existential insecurity,
Because how and who am I?
You tell me what you see.
But, press me close to you, so I don’t runaway at what you say.
Held dear until freed.
Then, left as a tree shaking out dead leaves,
recalling, in newly resounding silence,
the originally begged pleas of ‘please’.