Weird disclosures at midnight
carries the past like deflated balloons,
still in your pocket.

Connections made testify
to the human fragility
and inherit dislike
to understanding and here.

Suddenly a ship, an idea,
a way out
into the realm of real.

It is the thing in itself
that really is
the thing in itself,
the it
that bounces
against perception.

Weird tools and inward visions
stagger at the closure,
at final words
downing all intention.

I am the question
that scorned
rolls in a crypt
of misconception.