Flightst, thou, afar in sight
Yet, impossible ne’er thou might
Seem; for thou art o’ yore
At anchor, nigh a yonder shore.
Seest, then, darksome me
En abyme, a miroir o’ thy gloom
And ere long, I’ll vanish free
From ye Poppy’s sop’rific bloom.
Ar’ thou, natheless, alive an’ still
By a lone hithe I ever feel?
I wonder, hence my venture shall
Drift, find nowhere an’ stall.
Though, ol’ Mad Psyché, ‘tis not
As vain as all metaphysics,
‘Tis unsure what thinking thought
The cryptic call o’ Mystics.