Stout man neverblush

Stout man Neverblush, talks to friends invisible,
Entreats spirits of forsake; granted his wishes are.
Ones, argued his growl, descend stairs conceivable,
Burned by his eyes of ice, oculus undestined to mar.

Beauty of pink and grey, appeal to… not to him, though.
He’s blind as mating mole, he’ll never be able to tell
What side a punch landed from, first or a middle row…
Nothing knocks him off stage, stage of the ides of hell.

Half he confessed to a part, part in a midnight pilferage,
Death, often his friend, often his frail state of mind.
Half he’s forgiven - exempt, from the facts of his real age.
Traveler ‘ternal, peeling eras of time, edging off bogus rind.

Stout man Neverblush, what would you put up for sanity?
What for the virgin breasts, what for sights you’ve lost?
What for the grail to be full, for me to stop this profanity?
… Muted man Neverblush… river of life hath been crossed.