This form wobbles in front like
some kind of paper seesaw. Those
letters blur and morph, melding
together to make a language only
known to the anxious.

I know the vision is incorrect,
this text is simply broken due
to some kind of heatstroke? Or
perhaps I finally had that epiphany
and am a being of pure knowledge,
where I transcend communication?

Well, no. I am writing a pome
so I still require some kind of
English to get the ideas across.
My psychic prowess is as small
as an ant alongside a planet.
Saturn.