On Losing Touch

Sometimes I lose touch with the planet of my birth;
I seem to be neither on it nor off it.
I am suspended between heaven and earth,
Like the tomb of the Prophet.
This is a most uncomfortable circumstance;
Even if I could stay up there forever,
It is much too drafty, difficult to dance,
Warm rarely, and gay never.
But apart from this, I am troubled all the time
By the delusion that someone is calling,
By a sense that I have committed some crime
And by the fear of falling.
Better by far to be lashed to a mental block
In the small space between two warring cultures
Or even chained like Prometheus to a rock
Near a few friendly vultures.