Broken Cosmology

I've broken into an age of televised sedation.

I wonder, can it treat the agitation of my untouched skin?

There is an irritation in my aortic valve 

that is preventing the delivery of blood to my misplaced body.

My bloodless stomach scoffs at me.

My tongue laughs but refuses to entertain sweetness.

My spirit, 

which had outgrown its casing,

is being carelessly shoved back into its shell;

the very shell that feels the need to crumble like thin shelves of sandstone

on a canyon wall.

Was it foolish of me to have placed the cure into the hands of a ghost?

Especially when the hands themselves are equally as haunting--

they taunt me with sub-images and nearly-felt sensations. 

From afar, the universe had dazzled me with promises of romance and adventure.

As I now drift solo into its expanse, I discover its true nature.