Outside my abode of a sidereal space, it was on a song that clobbered my chest a feeling abstract.
Oh mater, oh my creator in disguise, must one's world but mine know you by this time.
Ponder I. Alas! Ponder I and ponder I a little further. Hath I thought of it for quite some time, and surmises my heart to share. Art thee all ears? Please be.

Sang the voice of an eventide, and was I living one.
Sang the voice of a blue sky, and had I atop my head a cerulean nimbus was that ceding with the cerise of a sunset.
And on and on did the voice sing - sun, stars, moon, day and night were all his muses. What is in his mind? Can thee tell?
Sang the voice a dirge of a soul - invisible scars had rendered him baffled, yet was the ache there, right there, under his skin on his hands, neck, ankles, forehead, lips and face to inflict. And he sang of an empty hour on the sky - a firmament of my fancy.
Sang he of the contrition and guilt of a relinquishment could he now never undo.
Tell me now. Can you?

'Tis a splash of an image and I am in the room again. You, you my mother art just close to the primus of the house.
And now I speak with nails bursting open my fingertips, and art thee in the midst of the pantry.
Now I step - one, two, one back.
Now move my feet forward - one, two, one back.
Alas! how long must I walk forth to come back?
I see thy visage clearly through this strabismus in my eyes. You see, it is pristine in me - my sight of you. I realized, I realize - art thou my mother. How about the other edge?
Is it you who treads now, quietly, too quietly.
One, two, three, five! Alack, have you almost touched me, yet not found my hand.
Why did you retreat that way? Did I scare you away?
Then was a growth of grisly nails from fingers grubby with ink and scars;
now is the vision straight from a flashback of my photo album. Hark the irony! Had I not one with me.
What picture, what face a child, what love of a mother! What is all this? What do I see?
Dare thee not to ascribe this labyrinth of sketches to my ramble! Hath I not been any more awake! Could I not be any more awake!
Now there you dally with the cutlery in your right hand, and I am right back at the outset of it all.
Did I pull thee out of thy obligatory space for two seconds in my wrist, and art our nails scratching down each other's skin from the distance of a long haul.
You see, have the nails grown enough to reach.
Lackaday! Art thee nowhere to be ascertained. Nowhere to be sought.
Is this a game? Consent and I will play.
Is this thy turn? Assent and I will let thee win.
Will I have my shot to hold? Nod and I will let go of my sword.
Damn this rapier! Damn this dagger!
What an infernal bliss is it that tastes like an aftertaste on my tongue but cuts it all the same?
Hell! These nether regions!
I am playing blind man's buff with you.
Alas! 'tis air and thin, thin air that push me right -
Alas! 'tis a drift of leaves, rustling past the velveteen of thy sequin that I cover my scars with. They hit my face in two slaps! Alas! Oh mother, am I slapped in this blindfold.
Alas! 'tis wet mist and cold blizzard that kiss my lips, my palms, my neck, my cheeks and push me left.
"Must you be just around somewhere" I say and strip myself naked for the blows.
Where is thy hand?
I am playing blind man's bluff with you, and I am the man.
Where is thy hand!
Where did I lose you?
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