It slips away,
leaves but a crust
of what may be and must,
a needle inside hay

It fades away,
does reason sway?
The place where I lay
might not be, or may

My feet may take me for a walk
into the speech that someone spoke;
a piece of chalk can have me choke

or fate may offer me in a silent spot,
where some things are, and some are not;
where hot is cold, and cold is hot

I wasn't sure the clock went tic;
perhaps the time did stop;
if Chronos gotten chaotic;
had all his seconds pop

I fake the moon,
I fake the lake
in wake of a prospective doom,
I feel it rise, I sense it loom

A bullet is the proper proof
of something out of hand,
man thinking he's above, aloof,
on sea and 'cross the land

My body has a foreign smell;
my mind's a rushing creek
Old Mountain at his wishing well;
Old Mountain, tongue-in-cheek;
”I mold this world at will”
Old Mountain at his window sill