Raving, Raving; the Tides Receeding

Here I am, In the first fling of youth- In what sterile field did I find this anti-fecund missive? This stretching of a hand, drenched in rubbery black; accompanied by a smell; a sewing, cloying end-platform. If I lean over this precipice, does the parched land stretch to a rising mirage? Or does it taper at a recapitulating vista before the headlands of my own Æterna? How many cycles now? With how many hinterlands, and how many headlands? Did I reach toward the question, then become abject before the limit of my limb? Or did I feel around in Darkness, with a capital '?' in the face of the lucid meaninglessnesses? Did I strive to touch a mark- or did I die inside a cloud? Was it in the valley time stenches- or in the white snow of lifted Passions? Here is a proximity: The colour of reality is a nonsensical question. The depth of the gyre is not a measurable quantity. The light that springs unbound, with a wiling, tithen, syro illumination- Does it make the Cathars redound upon a laddered absolution? May the world allow my apocrypha? Or am I repudiated before the grand narrative? Each hallway; Each Fuzon held orb of Basiliskery. Did I give it a shot? Was it worth a notch? Am I sitting amongst friends? Or in the depth of a drying fen? Low-Brow, High-Sighted; Lending-Lovely, Leaving-Lonely; Refrain-Comport, Exstat-Deport; As at Peak, As Beneath; With, Withing Withouts; Is It Red, Is It Blue; And is the grand life coalescing in you, And is the loud lie deafening to you? I am sane, And I am plural. I am you, As I am me. Blistering in cracking skin, Lodged beneath the galed porch, Lined inside a briny mind, Tethered to a fury, Gifted through barmene, Lathered with a scold, Trapped amongst the unkept, Lost without a head. The wild wind is rising high, And atmosphering these flickering bulbs, And driving back the floor filled houses, And paving over these concrete veins. A bell tolls behind the mists of the Overimage. Du Hast. Dost Thou Want To see?