Thence again was I
hovering,
waver-not and wafer-thin,
again within the fill of it.

I blobbed and echoed,
morphed and me,
without the inner tree
of life's own blossoming,

and such itself that I
was but a whisper.

An immortal dissonance
begot its own retainment
to the discipline of ages
it had wandered 'gainst.

Its dissonance was form
and revenance irreverent.
A sudden questioning
sparkt the death of innocence.