Left with granny’s
blues, laughing under breath, looking at myself—it seems dangerous. Love was
spinning webs, feeling insecurities, wrought in suspicion—to hate a soul for an
audience. I was going through dimensions, dragged into turmoil, one working heart-magic—minds
colliding. So much effusion, so passive, pleased one has me in thoughts—the vacuum
unsuspected. Candle lights for you, a nerve for you, torn for life it seems—never
quite with clarity. Life is vague, a treasure in a ball, so mythic and mystic,
plain blunt at moments. And Love was moving, jazzing was blazing, eyes looking
like mesmerism—the pain of the Lover. I was with philosophy, trying to include
you, so much dying to remain an outcast. And Love never suspected life, on
measure to adjudge for a word, felt securities; so charged in a second, falling
into sadness, with a thought watching signs. Such is an abstract, needing
something asphalt, demanding on you, what you can’t give. To sense with
passion, to adore worship, overcome by excellence—reduced to a
neurotransmitter. Trying to depend on you, trying to believe you need me, with
contradiction flooding intuition.
