¿Que?

A short poem...

¿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.