Now comes the nightmare visionary,
Awaiting an epitaph.
He believes in something celestial, yes!
Something primordial,
Unseen and forgotten
By the prying eyes
Of our modernity.
He talks of entire oceans
Of nothing in particular.
And for his daily bread
An elaborate network of schemes and panaceas
Designed to prop up the artificial columns
Of his misery.
Delusion finds company,
Finds other nightmares.
He wrote that
Lightning came out of his fingertips
Out of his spine.
Everything was a living dream,
Colored with the unshakeable feeling
Of having lived it before.