She fell into the sun.
She left her body and soared,
transcending the boundaries of space and time,
of reality and existence,
of everything and nothingness.

Solar flares covered her with surrealistic rainbows,
and the heat burned away her inhibitions and fears.

She fell into the sun,
and a black spot reached up for her
and wrapped her in its darkness
and breathed her like the aroma of a conscious death.

Wrapped in darkness and surrounded by light,
she became a spectrum of improbable possibilities
in a focused universe of blind definitions.

She fell into the sun.
Her emotions crumbled like a pillar of sawdust.
Visions of the Otherworld became flesh and blood.
Her dreams crystallized into amethyst pearls of divine truth,
and her love poured in amber teardrops.

The darkness pulled her down
into an ocean of molten gold,
and her existence became a singular moment.
She became music and she became a poem.
She became a photograph of shadows and icicles.
She became a sculpture and a dance,
and a painting of brilliant colours.

She fell into the sun,
and she fell into the infinite distance
between one heartbeat and another,
and she fell into the third eye of her mind,
and she fell into the illusion of metaphysical thought,
and she fell into the ritual of pain and pleasure,
and she fell into a Circle cast by The Truth,
and she fell into the premonition of a distant universe,
and she fell into the seventy-two names of God,
and she fell into a pile of leaves that had fallen from the Tree of Life,

            and she fell into my arms,
                         like falling into forever.