A Viscous Tranquility

Such ambrosia has ne’er touch the lips of man
Like the nectar of midnight’s virgin snowflake.
That I, so moved by the reticent stillness,
To the heart of intangible tranquility, reach.
That I, surrounded by the shifting masses of giants,
Can touch the realm where all thoughts become one,
To see all that is through the eyes of the blind.
That I, a vaporous idea amidst the obsidian being,
Can be chained by the sense of unbound liberty.
For what eternal power do I bear this onus?
To what end do I long? Heir, I, to the winter’s night?
To the rapturous arms of a midnight’s virgin snowflake?