Yellow String Beings

This is it

That balmy realm

A dimension accessible only through loss of self and heightened consciousness

Where I meet primary yellow aliens; or, rather, they meet an extraterrestrial

I still don’t know their name

What’s it been? Two or three times?

Maybe four if I count the account of the encounter by a friend

A shared dream must make it a reality

(No, I don’t think it means WE should be)

Here it is

That misty elevation

A portal for first contact dissolving into repeat performances, stage fright and hesitation

Where I greet mustard yellow string beings; or, rather, they greet a water sack of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen

I still don’t know their name

They don’t know mine

What’s it been now? Two or three times?

Perhaps four if I count the account my son encountered of unmellow yellow yarn things

A shared curiosity abounds, which might make this a reality

There it was

That singular vastness

An astral plane made manifest in the corner of my soul’s mind and shimmery sliver of the universe

Where I piqued swirling vortices of xanthic yarn squiggling round and round while simultaneously bobbing up and down

I guess that movement helps them keep their form

Will a fourth first contact spurred by loss of mortal sense against space time break the rift?

Because for now all they do is gyrate on the edge of a gray cliff