Feast Before Chest Waves Out (Cloak of Hands)

Awake now, my head swirled up and out, cotton candy for some lesser known spirit to feast.
Eye opened, taking a breath down and in, learning the routine again like every time before.
When I truly change, I have no desire to guess, but always after Her grasp of my chest.
Moving fast and uncontrolled, a race to immerse, I win before my flag waves.
The Cloak of Hands holds tight, pulls and scatters me, leaves a light soon to be gripped out.
I wear it as a wall, hands twitching, snapping into gestures of commonality.
Everything now becomes a side note, losing focus, in the endless open palms.
Beneath each fist of fingers lies another, deeper and colder, to blackness.
Further and tighter into skin fabric.
The music fills the Eye, a carnival of vivacious and toony color, all logical absurdities.
Twisted digits learning me of my own thoughts, wheels of boots, busts and carpeted hallways.
Perpetually shifting glance highlights the madness, stepping across my skin, the leg-laced face.
Walls of this world extend beyond furthest reach, wormholes of mind, visible through the desk.