The Dark Backward

The haze. Nearly deafened me, the sound of it. Slow and penetrable, gazing at the insides of my mind. What is it thinking? About me? About anything? Am I a spiral, curvy and bending in the contrast of the night, a cut-out of light, dull plexiglass cookies and milk-white shards, flying into the black oblivion of history, merely trying to escape its prejudices like broken skin. Dodging stereotypes like meteors - to no avail. Success may find me yet another day. What can you see from there? The tiny lights, forward and sideways specks, points that go backways and allways? Is it in you? Or in me? My strength, waning, like a flailing sun - aging, dying, barely breathing. My life, one twisted effort of barely held control, is it worthwhile to take up my path again - or should I drift? (A better question: will I?) I can raise the world with both arms, like Atlas, only wiser, and younger; I can be the one to give up all I have, because it is nothing, and what do you have, everything. My virtue is knowing (others argue feeling) when to lay my hand and when to hold it. There it is.My ace of clubs. Conscience. Freedom. Will. You have no idea what I'm capable of. And you never will. "What see'st thou else in the dark backward and abyss of time? - The Tempest