Snapshot of Myself

As I look down I see myself,
a tattered, wrinkled, abused
pile of young bones
A voice echoes softly though the PCP fog in the room
A strong weathered figure urgently beckons to me
Although already slowly in an upward drift; my momentum halts
Soft words call out and tug gently on the anchor of my soul
My direction changes
Back down through the floorboards and the ceiling above
The light of my existence had almost extinguished itself it seems
I feel a flicker and my mind begins to unbend
A warmth, a rekindling from within
The drowsy numbness of narcotics still in my brain
They say only the good die young
Well, I would have made a lovely corpse
But then I then I thank Oma for this snapshot of myself
And the chance to live again.