Eidolon

I arrived on a Sunday, but have I?
It snowed, so I'm told.
I've wondered about when my descend began
Such lowly ramblings are inconsequential
I am but an Eidolon
A nameless rose, the house, be it Verona or otherwise, matters not
Selfless intellectuals need stimuli too
I intend intense but hunger mediocre
Certainly, I could not have arrived, and must journey still
but for how long?
The cracked heels may be paired, but they walk alone
Strangered in a stranded place, Ignorance being their bliss
Going to and fro without so much as moving, Helpless in their senseless sleep
I need to get out, but I don't. I see the flaws and still reserve a seat
Had we spoken with eyes instead of mouths - would the language be better?
The language that is raw, rare and commonly unspoken
Brutal Truth is what I seek, fully exposed, never nude
"Truth is rarely pure, and never simple"
It's so wrong this place... extorting power, enforcing will, superficial pursuits, consuming flesh of brethren, deceived enslavement
But what can I really do? I can't even be me.
I find that light is absent in most 'windows to souls'
I find that proximity's separation brings restlessness
I find that love is without sanity
After all the exquisite intricacies of my obscure mind,
I remain human, and painfully mortal