Low hung ample apples of the sun

On the tree of knowledge. Right next to me.

Enough for you, enough for me. 

Extends my irresolution.

I need to hear the crashing of the sea

to believe in me

to mercilessly set me free from these unghosted unknown

unknowns that hover on this edge

of consciousness, always out of reach,

the sublime sublimity,

of that extra sensory perception

of what we are always without, lacking

the courage to face the hydra-headed beast 

and track my two-faced self

through the nightmare-dream of unfettered existence

to explore what appears, or seems.