Of that which is not

Twisting and turning, in the chicanery of a phantom distress
like a prisoner enslaved in imaginary chains, none the less;
I carry this afflictive weight of failure but of a surreal quest.
It is a hallucinatory turmoil impelling a fervent false unrest
and yet this covetous specter that invades me feels quite true.
And I know, it's a seraphic potent poison, that I myself brew
to which there is no veracity, no more than that in fantasies; 

it's a mythical story from depths of my own mind's mysteries.
Yet, even as my logical intellect is trying to fight this illusion,
I have well mastered this art of making an intoxicating vision,
that's invincible, that's is untrue and yet beatific and too clear.
To keep alive what does not exist I bicker, for its death, I fear;
I stop the dreams of tranquil sleep, to envisage reverie, dear.
A yearning lust for that which lives not in any but just in me
and yet it is too luscious to forsake, it's too seductive to be.
In actuality, the apotheosis of this dream, afar from what is
helps bloom a beguiling toxin, as crisp as a springtime breeze.
A frictional torment, that I powerlessly brawl to see the truth,
is blossoming as a merry tree, yet from which there is no fruit.
I wish for it to fade away, in my vision and from my dreams
and yet, even more, I wish it all be true, just like how it seems.
Though ashamed to feed the fire and to grow that which is not
I still bear this shame with grace, just for relishing its thought.
This phantom agony, this chimaera- seraphic mirage of dreams

holds the illusion so vivid, so sweet even in just its mere gleam.
Yet even in the abundance of the fact proving its non-existence
what if there is a little truth, a part of me argues in its defence!