Thought, it creeps upon me
like a thirsty spider, creeps
like it can feel something wriggling
in its web. Strange experiences
recall themselves through me,
unfamiliar voices I hear like a memory
of what could have been, but
never was. Words rhyme together
that do not sound anything alike,
somehow coupled into one in
an impossible knot. Imagination
has been the home for fleeting denizens,
caricatures of fleshy existence,
whose names I never catch, who
sometimes return changed from
unknown forces. I never dream
any more: it is one vision after another,
spaces I have seen outside dreaming's
perimeter, grand and sometimes
cold, colors not meant to be
spoken of. I think, therefore I am
not: it is only the thought that is here,
and I am merely like a shadow
vanishing when the full light shines.
me?!