Pure as it may have been, A fit of stark yet stealthy rapture That puts the average epiphany to shame. No less than a perfect Overwhelming of stricken senses. Stumped, witless, starry-eyed, Scrambled sidewise and jolted away To an age yet to come. An auspication from the One Self Framed in rosy hues of Blind twenty-twenty sight.

Falling is the fun part, Crash-landing won’t kill you though it could. Ticking away the days May be deadening but you’ll live on In the periphery Of worlds that aren’t, but should have been. Seeing double, seeing a patchwork of dreams die.

Now this is infernal, Intolerable and unforeseen. This can’t be the promise Of a new day and dawn because I’m Seeing double again, watching my vitality run dry and hold itself hostage to dreams that will not die.

But if anomaly should restore in full twenty-twenty The dream of dreams returned, Know it was long foreseen.