If on this inked page, through unobserving eyes do I create meaning,

 

All my pain makes sense more than time’s self-conscious sense of its.

 

In the aftertime of things yet not understood but felt, far away from

 

Delight’s circumscription’s reflex, a glance into my soul shall be

 

Attempted, not by thy very soul, but by what behind it doth desire

 

wish to reconcile.

 

When conjecture put me to think feelings of myself in others,

 

Things that cannot be seen, nor succeeded in without deceive,

 

Part of me falls into myself just to be born again under yonder a starred sky.