A Butterfly's Wingbeat

Along the way to when I go,
I capsized, sensitive,
Meaning to where I'd go, go,
And furthering on from ruin,
I see my soul, aback sitting across
the river scouting through my mind.
On a cloud. Effervescent,
I know these things aloud.
I know them back on my trip ascent,
Foreign dent, entreating,
Gauss repellent, sentimental
And catching the glint in the eye of man's representative,
The one with oars,
Who I assume has learned to steer before
on another river he didn't swim.
Some displacement.
Some interaction, recollection,
Then I go on being on my own
terrestrial turn, else-minded,
Far-sighted, scneted
Going on the same spot to where I
haven't been in whiles larger than the moon.
Other elses.
Other perspectives.
More pairs of eyes to be had 
The tenor to travesty,
Sifting earnest at the bad
The forthwith in keeping with
Minimalism and what we keep in our own mindsets
Bless them secrets.
Tenfold misfits.
And growing pains.
For the man who grows
Is the man who drowns.
That's what they told me when
I went downstairs to drink.
Clearly I ought not think.