I remember the Muses lived once,
In another age, in the long ago,
In the far-away, by the wine dark sea,
Where the purple waves broke merrily,
On the edge of a once-upon-a-time land,
Where the waves washed up on the Grecian sand.
I would have liked, to have been in that land,
To have stood in the sand, by the Sybil’s caves,
To have put my kisses on soft Euturpe’s cheek,
To have tiptoed, meek, to Polymnia, by the waves.
If I never cut my hair again,
After my hair has grown out, long,
My God may come to taste my flesh.
And, if he finds it sweet with song,
I may find myself, in line for visions.
Visions of the Future,
Visions of the Past,
Sunrise, sunsets, Judgement Day,
Life’s vibrations, vast.
Visions complex and complete.
Chaotic, compact, twisted, neat.
Visions of the Big Bang,
The beginnings and the end.
Visions of the breath of Brahma,
Cosmic light and wind.
Visions of our private missions,
Spiral visions of transitions.
Visions without breadth or time,
Beyond both harmony and rhyme.
Visions which are rife with strife,
Which might explain myself, and life.
Without a warning,
Visions are everywhere in my head.
My Sybil has woken up, and said:
This is the farthest side of real.
This is the end,
Of the many-layered,
Zone of words and consciousness.
This is the world of rarefied matter.
This is infinity’s center.
This is the far edge of time.
This is the Age of Illusions.
This is as far as I see,
As far as I go,
As far as I know,
And, what I have found is,
Your world has fallen completely apart,
And, everyone in the end times,
Has gone completely insane.
There is something in me,
Happy to hear it.
Now, it all makes sense.