Reality and fantasy detached,
Living in the spaces between letters.
I’m on the outside all the time,
Taking in only the memories of places where the words began.
Just a brain waiting for a sensory lapse,
An overload to spring from the fetters.
I can understand the language and the rhyme;
But the words have no meaning to someone so blind.
Bumps and stretches of the linguistic skin;
This is the end where it all makes sense.
Roving, ranting, raining right onto Rilke.
Any anomaly assimilate, and it is what poetry is and where it got us.