Dim Is the Trial and Limitation of the Unseen Imagination, With Which I Cannot See

If I only could see that which is beyond the pale of the limitation of The complexity with which things espial are thus espied. If the round pasty pastry- Complete with its rind of crispy, golden-brown, flaky crust, And the alabastrine creaminess contained both without and within- Therein, or in here, or wherever is the place where all the modes And analogues and apotheoses of figurative speech, And the metaphors and similes and symbols true that they prove to be, Are housed; within that tremulous sphere, wheeling frenetically in some Gaseous void out there, beyond the pale of the furthest star, Beyond the realms charted by stellar cartographies, In that otherness that is also nothingness, In the dread, dead void between sidereal bodies coruscating in The caliginous eternal night of the blank emptiness of space; In that dim spatiality, where all the metaphors that we use eventually go; To that endless address whence no man and no thing ever returns, From that dread and dun locus on which we have assayed to focus; I say from that there is no repair, nor remove. Once one is there, that is their address until time indefinite. Still, if only I could glimpse that which lies beyond the limitations of Our somehow magnificent, yet insignificant imaginations...