Birth Pains of Astral Projection

I can almost see the shimmering faerie as I recline on moss
But there isn't enough primrose
There are only wishes in a hidden forest
I can almost see ghosts as I shiver on icy floorboards
But Amelia is asleep in winter
There are only prayers in a secret house

I was lost by the wayside
Amidst the groans of a tired time
There is nothing for me here

The tales of the flute by the fire
A stroll through a sombre evening
Smoke enticing from their pipes, pipes
And the honourable visions of a pulseless mind
Death comes in an instant, if you like
But Amelia may be waking soon
When I sleep, I can't pull myself away yet
But I know there are mansions out there
Maybe on Saturn, or Mars, or Mercury, or Luna
Maybe on Saturn, or Mars, or Mercury, or Luna

Maybe this is a clue

Maybe this is a clue
I'd never been washed ashore, or seen the droll night before
My body vanished, I hovered in the concourse
Of the court of thousands of yellow asphodel
It hurts remembering the fragance of Heaven

We lived in the rowans, avoiding mad water
Spoiling our children with tea and mushrooms
Early in the autumn, as we slept by the oven
Someone sent a shape who tore the house apart
Our bond shattered
I was drawn away

I was caught praying in the shade

Recently, I went back to my door, and breathed
It was love filtered through yellow paraffin
We pushed with all our might, for you