I long to dwell in the ocean of fancies
another body of water after a Countless.
How can I help but dream of fishing every night
to catch such anything that puts me in bliss?
I’d like to lay in a blanket of daisies—
for the soil itself to be strands of my tresses.
Does it matter if my eyes close under light
when through the shut lids there is nothing amiss?
I wonder at times if these are the seas
where which the waves against my soul press
Why is it that here I feel nothing but Holy Fright
as if the land of before had never such exist?