Would you could you?

 Shall we go? Shall my eyes cross again as I struggle
to conjure some semblance of a vision, an inkling of an inking,
a pen-to-paper skirmish, two daggers short of a Truth?
Shall I go anywhere but here? Machete through the mists
of mind, the overgrown brush that paints in one broad stroke
a gurgling swath of shapeless reasons, and a thumbprint
of a girl fumbling through life on pomp and happenstance?
So shall I go? Shall my blades forever cross as I struggle
between want and what, between Truth and Verisimilitude
between a bleak present and an inky future? It all twists
and seethes like mirages in a mind-desert, calling
formless figures and forgotten dreams to overflow
through every landscape, on every plane, on every plane.
So get away, fly, let the solid solidify while I melt through
the clichéd hourglass; a whirlpool like a stopped clock,
my hands turning in no direction, body swathed in shapeless reasons,
blackened fingers reaching for anything. Anything at all.