I can feel one cloud from the rest,
a rolling undulation of flood-water mists,
and I see what no one can seem to define.
I carry the impact of arbitrary, storm-weathered fists
pierced by the spire of two shoulders;
the air breathes in cysts.
For my wants, I bore Longinus;
my needs, Aeschylus.
My mind tears like a blistered rain
beating hard into the earth.
I've traveled far and deep, all for one thing:
To feel as though I'm on my feet.
All I feel are two lonely, broken knees.
All I feel is the waning strength of weakening wrists,
but happiness in discovery:
elucidation, fear, combat and pain;
listless fury and agonizing strain;
trepidation in serene, moonlit waves;
my heart and eyes are the swaying crane.
I won't want for a thing,
for I'll fall prey to my own brain.