Maybe it is really impossible,
To unravel the dizzying axes
That spin, tumble, spin,
In wrapping layers around you,
The axis of an atlas, the restless earth,
Eternally changing tides,
Maybe you are the mystery itself,
Le chiffre indéchiffrable,
Forever the temperamental enigma,
The ancient strobe-light code,
Not quite what you seem, for sure.
I tried to look beyond just you once,
And in searching past your sun-tinted window,
I saw some unfathomable darkness,
A room with fleeting shadows, concealed figures,
For the world to glance away from your window,
The moment the shimmering you draws curtains,
They will predate.
I know not what they look like,
Tall towering ransomers
Who demand payment for your gloss
(perhaps the price is indeed your soul);
Pesky fleas of a darker shade,
Biting at your envy, your comparisons
Raring to bare their teeth and claw;
Or even the hilarity and madness
Of the absolute pitch black room,
Perhaps your craving for more eyes,
More smiles, more chanting, more admirers
Will drive you up all six walls,
Up and then over then down then across
Then left and back and right and front
Madness; delirium; absurdity; insanity;
An endless thirst for greater
A relentless crave for a little more power
An infinite hunger for higher
Maybe in your darkroom,
Madness is spelled H-A-P-P-Y.
Loneliness is spelled B-L-E-S-S-E-D.
Emptiness is spelled J-O-Y.
Hopelessness is spelled O-K-A-Y.