Poetry: 'Maelstrom'

The less I moor, this vessel free
The more it moors, a trestle be
atop it, loft reality
a trough of vile banality

So what is real? More what I feel?
A fell I foot or hell I heel?
A thought a'thunk?
A quaff of sense, til drunk & drowned
in sense so dense as to confound

Merry are we, til all fall down,
til then spin free—merry-go-round
Sweet Carousel, when 'will' you cease?
"When of this world you're found deceased!"
"And, of it's grasp you'll let release...
to moor no more and be at peace."No shore or sure, for see to sea.