things not seen

welcome to my mind, old sock,
for I am heavy with loves
and their arsenal of arson
setting my heart's house on fire
while I watch with witnessing eyes
not doing a damn thing about it,
but that's not the main attraction,
because deep underneath it all
is a well of anxious axes
grinding my soul to soup
and my life to fine gone dust
disappearing over sad horizons
and around the world,
collecting noons, moons and myths
from other times and top people
only to come back
as shadows of trees.