Stickyard

True, true.  Some things are better than others.  Anyone can say whatever they damn well please, it’s all good and fine and dandy, like sweet wine, soothing to the soul, lay down the clover and hay piles.  The stick straw, the blindness to what we can’t imagine.  Holy Lord and Hell, we live in dark matter, no one knows what we are.
No one knows what we are?  No.  Not a one.  I can say this is that and that is that, and we are us.  That is everything.  A giant tree of logic, a compendium of all knowledge, a wave crashing bleakly in a dead cold cavern.  My heart is gone, my sirs.  I am hollow on the inside, I am a cave and a tree, and I am nothing.
This isn’t true.  I’m not this, but I am this!  A sub-transient whisper, a homeless man to a cloud, the sky rests on the earth, my friends.  My feet are merely tools to walk me from here or there, I stand on them, I sit no longer, I can bear it no longer, as a lion roars, as a tiger steals your men, your carefully laid plans, put to rest deep in the sea.
We will confound them, you or I.  We will put them to the test.  They are us, now.  We were them, put simply or plainly, and rightfully so.  By our own distinction.  Let me not be kidnapped!  The night is long, the way is cold, but here and there we can let it go.  The wind carries it away, the flowers pale or bloom, the rain falls, it doesn’t matter.
Having writ, once writ, ne’er can remove a wit of it.  I’m just saying this.  It’s for entertainment.
It’s for entertainment purposes.
I’m not really this thing that I am illustrating.  I am not this magical beast, this horned nightmare, or these cool, blue waters.  Somehow I am tho, you are not able to take this from me.  I gift it to you.
It is just this thing.  It is as if it is a man who lashed himself together the boughs of trees, and set them afloat on a torrent of water, and aimlessly drifted to sleep, as he purposefully rowed himself in his dreams.  He is you.
“How is the water today?” one of us says.
“It is fine,” he says.  He is not just you, he is himself, as well.  “Hi,” I say to him.
“Hello,” he says.  He snores and sleeps peacefully, the boat moving along forcefully by the rowing in his dreams.  His fever pitch delusions forgotten, his manifestation of being a mere thought.  This man plumbs the depths of the catacombs in search of delightful treasure.  He finds the riches, he keeps the peace.  He is a King, somehow.  His land is in his home.  I can only say that it is the way of it.  He lives where they are all Kings, because they are free.
He meets others.  He is truly on a journey.  Perhaps he is on a quest.  He sleeps, and the dragons in his eyes dance in the firelight.  He is with others, now.  He is in his home.  He drinks bitter herbs, and his friends love him.