would
this ink travel unhindered
were its temporary
master
able to abide by
actualities,
being in opposition to
the fallacies, so
fantastic
that realm, in which 
he, and 
anyone might rather
reside.

might
this pen prescribe some
tide
intangible, insurrecting the 
reflection 
he all but ever sees, and
believes
despite ration and reason and
some season
misguided in seeing and being
seen.

so schemed and squeezed, it
retreats from the
circumstances,
advanced and foundational in
relation to this
nevermind, this
nothing,
as it all ends up 
as.

yet, 
between the lines of otherwise
absences 
an effort, errant and full of
folly
carries on, not despondent but
shy, just slightly of
divine
madness, in its own
right.