lens on a recluse

Strange does fit the recluse,
    Dresses up a bit the riddle of it:
        The somehow extroverted introvert,
Who, for calm, cavorts from the couch in it.
    Far from friendless, he
                Unchooses the world’s insanity,
                    Unfurls his own berber fantasy
    On the ceiling of a daydream,
Vanishing into the weaving of it.

The world inside his head
    Is bigger than the world apart from it.
        His bed is Borealis-Basin-wide,
And, for dream, he’s willingly lost in it
    For what seems like days,
                Unfolding origami ripples
                    Underfoot of his racing away
    Into Morphean make-believe—
His boyish heart laughingly tossed in it.

Uninterruptedly,
    His thoughts are inside the inside-out box.
        His keys deadbolt the French freedom of it;
And, for range, he’s pardoned to speak rudely,
    Pace nudely in it,
                Uncork a presumed profundity
                    Underwritten by Verre de Merlot,
    And bloviate with Nobel blues—
Strange thinking, yeah, but less lonely in it.

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    Poetry: Lift
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/01/13/lift/