¿Que?

¿Que?  
To draw it, 
And to pull it, 
To wrangle the idea 
It's glorious, no doubt,  
With the whip of my conscience.  
But joy has its reins and reigns; 
The moment winter greens for spring, 
Through the crack in my subconscience. 
When the flood becomes conqured by drought, 
Where everything forgets itself for all time. 
I know thease things to be, though some wont not. 
Taken from my mind to stuff into a chest of dreams, 
That witch I most desire is to varried to come to light, 
Yet to Loved to be dropped from the depths into nothingness.