What Do I Mean

Perhaps a flight in mind shall strengthen thine own end, Between the birth of blasphemy strung along a river bend. Birth besides the breath of death, inhaled into nonce puffs, Poked between a scatter of stars whose stolen light’s enough. To touch grace as if the self is but such a shade of grey, Of shadows sitting behind trapped light the object traps by day. Between light and lack of luminescence sits the shore of worth, Neither black nor white dare a chance to monopolize its lore. For seeing ‘tween the is and isn’t is but a game of chance, To dance convinced perhaps by blinded reason or deafened parlance. Hither thither, squirm and slither, Betwixt the licks of tongues, Imagined in the mind of whether, A word is gold or dung. Read between or outside lines, Their sight is but is cry, For an echo of what each inside hides, Yet screams your truth or lie. What do I mean? All, so that it seems.