Rimbaud

The roads leading away circle the distances and seem to go nowhere. They seed the horizon with promises, disorganising the senses and reason until there is only a hole, a dark cave into the interior. Effigies stare out of the dark cloaked in symbols that can only be deciphered by the soul. This is the language of the visionary, gifted seer of the modern. For this traveler in the shadowlands of the psyche, there is either transcendence or death, mattering little if counted as one more in history's legion of the forgotten, or a dazzling occupant of another realm. His words haunt, coming agonizingly close to revelation, enchanting the soul with the stolen melodies of the sublime before falling silent as homeless angels must do, a casualty of flesh and blood.