The language of love incessant,
Not stopping, never stopping,
To not ever know the end of things,
    Ever.
Inhuman projection of the soul,
Unto particulates of unsought desires
What woe it is that they cast upon us that we cannot see past the fog,
Lies upon lies they built the majesty upon.

The silvery lake of mercurial thoughts, afloat midst the misty isle.
To look in is to die a thousand deaths and live a thousand more lives,
To gain knowledge beyond man and gods alike,
    Ascendant.
And no one has gazed upon its shallow depths.
The simplest answer of all question:
That one is many and many is one, and
Unto a multitude rests a singular thought where all minds converge.

Thoughts unthought and minds unwrought,
To not know whether knowing is well,
Seeing that emptiness before these eyes,
    Hollowing.
The crazed void with no beginning nor end.
To find something midst the nothing must be quite the task.
To find oneself midst this madness also,
Must surely be a task undone.