And I know the face already—
The face that stops me in a phase.
And when I too am lying,
How may I begin?

And I am running out of time.
Running out of time, running out of time
To save face to meet the face.
Running out of time
For indecision.
For revisions.

It is impossible to say what I mean.

Between the claim and my reality
Falls the grey scale of your memory.
At the point of the turning conflict,
Neither forwards nor backward.

But at a point.

The point which cannot separate
The inner desire from practical reality.
By inaction not action,By which comes insanity, deprivation,
And the destruction of all reality.
And the absence of my sanity.

But what have I, but what have I?
It appears one way and not the other.
I cannot see where your reality lies.


Assured of certain uncertain certainties,
An affliction of fantastical fancies,
Surrounding my mind upon which theories cling—
Suspicions of some infinitely inexplicable,
Infinitely incomprehensible thing.

And yet . . .

Because I do not wish to yearn again.
Because I do not wish,
Because I do not wish to yearn.

Even if this is beyond,
These thoughts are not far gone.

And when will the truth be found, when will the truth be found? Not now, there is silence.

Of all that is done and been, the confusion
Of motives immaterial
Which I cannot place.
I cannot guess, for you know only.

And what forms seems to form for a time.
A pattern from actions appearing without rhyme
Which calls great strain
Even if I do not wish to yearn again.

Answers which I am forbidden to receive, I do not find.
Yet I am glad for clues that exist in kind.
For I rejoice, that I have found something to please my mind.

In another way which points regardless of the same thing;
In another way I am repeating.
In the end, it all points to the truth, which is always present.
Whatever this is,
This is silence.