From my mind comes far stranger things
Than mere intelligence.
Who can tell their nature?
Not I.
Dreams prevail, revolving mistily,
Forming a shrine to the enigmatic uncertainty
Surrounding reality.
My emotions, my feelings,
Come not from the heart.
How can this be, when my heart is but
A pumping station for life-force?
Can my living be called semantic,
Somehow meaningful in a lengthy prose
Of approximately eighty years?
From my mouth comes far stranger things
Than uncultured phonics.
Incoherent and twisted, they resonate
To become complex vocals.
Not I, for one, can tell whereby this gift came.
The sounds betray my thoughts
And make known the metaphysical me.
From my hands come far stranger things
Than scars of inconsistent labour.
With these marbled talons I create
Masterpieces - works of art.
With my hands I create myself;
I can mould, manipulate and bring meaning,
If not understanding, to mere intelligence
And phonics, to heal the infrequent scars.
Only I can use these hands;
Feel their warmth and the tingling inside.
Only I can reveal why it is that
From my mind comes far stranger things.