LIKE A CASTAWAY

I am like a shipwrecked man, whose soul-losing bowls are broken to pieces. I have no present, no future - I live secretly in my valleys, like a selfish, crying baby in a lap that wants to be rocked. There is no longer a cleft, a tiny, penetrable shelter for my soul, only the incessant, orphaned weed-fear; in its glass palace-beads is the perpetual melancholy, like memory, if maintenance is lacking - ephemeral! 

I am worn, oft-cared for, as worn, oft-frayed, worn caparison, moth-suede black poster, my metamorphosis-like translucence a mere imaginary, idyllic product. A life of inexhaustible fate: I can hardly suffer the reproaches of a slap in the face! My being: an ever-breakable, vulnerable rotation. Returning into itself, - now still stubborn, turning inward Circle; a witness highly ennobled. There can be no room for other selfish complaints; with my stubborn pleas I would still incessantly besiege love: no one can choose in interchangeable consciences! 

From my unhappy, underworldly cell I would still thus bitterly try to escape, like a groping blind mole, if it detects a ray of sunshine that may yet enliven its little life: searching, dissecting, who seeks the deeper composition of the soul, and its secrets while peering into the superstitious, charming immortal eyes! Fractured, proud light, or cosmic, cometary float, but it would be well if it could intersect the transposable course of my affairs!