only the poem is over

He was the poster-boy of pamphlet-men. These are the stareplanes of existence. Bifurcating beams of light punctured through a waterwhite sky. These are the shared pains of persistence, the growing pains of the enlisted. We are the underhousemen. He stared halfhandsomely out into an unsettled sea. A mile or so away yet another sigh between yet two more tired lips. The fairlanes of the assisted, the tearing pains of the arm-twisted. No horizon on the horizon. Skysea. Could stand on my head and never know the difference. Stareplanes. No, the inner ear could tell. The darestains of the unafflicted, the hair-manes of the gutter-lifted. The layers laid or the sand sifted. I think we've tried hard enough for now. This is the seer's grave. That was the blue. That was the black. This is the gray.