the eyeless everything

i am not the demented ornament sought.  ' neither strange enough, peculiar enough, valuable enough, subtle enough, accessible enough.  i see and cannot stop the ask; perspective is my peripheral curse.  the verbed song in my occulatim occursari.
whose song am i?  my own curse; my own cure.  a cause explaining itself to the hundred white.  but the eyeless needs no explanation.  a timeless second surpassing the articulations of the invented.  still, i am dipped in the gray satellite; a float between the shouting black and white polarities.  defined and deafening.  strange and compelling.  familiar and repulsive.
i glide there but never fall.  not enough gravity to make an impact, not enough momentum to fly away.