Analysis of The Glass, Darkly

I decided to be selfish this year, and it has led me to no place yet of whimsy or worth the meantime;
havent furthered or deepened,
gone into none.
Decided to ask for random wantings, and in finding fiery dreams move to uncover and cover myself;
cover your head with my arms and your heart with my head, pavilion your soul and wrap it up in my Bluespace;
were I selfishly so, I would take you from now and keep you forever;
remove your name for mine and mine for yours -
entwine.

But this captured memry of the tall tale I'd tell, talks only of how silent the dark trees can be;
for even now comes a wanderer to sneak into glass
this Deadendom plighting my gluttonous Wandering;
steals from me this Nightdream and Dayterror of your lovely wingéd brows around the eyes that burn me now.

Kept away: away, away;
but still from water, smokes in Rising,
or a Trickofthelight - if lived, still to dying,

and the Wanderer of the Woods pries your Phoenixashes from my back and sneaks it too into a jar;
there is nothing in dreams so by waking I conjur up the realms before me;
curse the gods that dont exist,
and jar by jar, dreamless: persist.

kept in its case, the Wanderer takes out the keys to the place and unlocks the Ways;
and the pallor is pallid and gray, and boring;
vivarium seething in terrorwaking;
so relocks the Wanderer and leaves again to the night,
still void,

bites off more of thee that I kept with me,
for keeping, and I not sure I would not too;
reap you from my face, take back the parts that I stole first,
and wandering, never dreaming,
wondering, never dying.

but no, to catch the Glasstrap Thief would be to reveal nothing,
only finding the place where the pieces are kept,
where stashed are the jars that constrain thee,
and smash -
jar by jar;

for waking brings similar dreamlessness;
still Rising,

The trap that I'm in is the Wanderglassquestion,
where waiting for airless or quaking to send,
instead keep me waking and aching to bend,
to the whimsy of Dreaming you'd be mine again.

Well, the offroad and broad songs too tell tales of my Heaven,
which is only where Rising and Waking find HIM,
the Wonderfilled eyes that burn me to ashen,
and still - on to dying, between that and Rising, well - Rising then.