Speak, Nonsense

I was a slave to nonsense once;
nonsense made more sense to me.
My images and sentences
were independent, always free.

Then changing did what changing does —
and with the chain of life’s events,
that wooed me by effect and cause,
I chose to bind myself to sense.

But I am under no illusion
that the sentence and the sense,
in constant whirlwinds of confusion,
ever form experience.

Experience, that always was
a wildfire in the brain,
kindles worlds that were the cause
until the ash of words remain.

In ice and order there is beauty,
but disorder is desire.
If my government is logic,
still — my God is fire.