Once, I went wandering in a Hemlock grove.
Socrates came up to me
And asked me what my deal was,
And I replied, "It's hard for me to explain:
I cannot untangle myself from the words.
They are in my tears and
The pounding of an artist's heart.
The words are all I know;
They are the very air I breathe,
My anchor to reality
And the crystal barrier keeping me from it.
Without the words I die;
I die a death of black and white forgiveness
For the world that I glimpsed once
Through the looking glass.
He nodded and went on his way,
And I wandered lost in the Hemlock grove.
