with eyes so old seeing it all was easy,
spinning around there is nothing queasy,
in the head
but one thing yet to be seen
refreshing, so crisp so clean
that
makes knowing what to look for from the start
being so close to what is really is feel the pounding heart
dare not go closer, mistaken for the wrong stuff,
nothing tough and sinewy or even tougher,
is
this way and that way, can't find a way, even in the fog,
with the biggest **** spotlight shining out, so much light that my
silhouette is pasted to the fog, like Davinci's pointing man
the
way, fully vulnerable and exposed, wingspan equals altitude,
it would be a loss to fall from your own height,
not from the "mountains of madness" over and over an
edge
of no return, or what is the point,
of a sharp blade, for the dull witted, but what
of glory, that is the edge of glory
don't let them catch me peering
                     I have found it.