I know you’ve a way around a psyche. I notice you seem differently. In a dance, in double-talk, in pursuit of hidden seduction. One could enchant a wife, she walks away. One could make life, arouse chemistry, and walk away sullen. We speak to existence, such writhing understanding. (A poet holds back more than she conveys.) I feel deprived of lights, besprinkled with woes, looking at sunshine, watered by dearth. O rising arts, to sense some need, albeit, saturated, happening to see prose, neat yoga, tsunami intestines. And I’d give account, eye-bound-ascension, if only a soul was ripe. Lying is often playful, it says something true, we’ve refused to prevaricate. Pain of an ark, desperation of a curse—eyes opened, not much to give, sullen sin, to grin off discomfort.
I know you’ve a way around a psyche. I know you possess innocence. I know parts are hassled. So clandestine; so determined to remain unseen. Maybe a fear of what depth destroys. To leave one filled by effervescence, accused in spirit, wanting so much beyond his station. As does realization, battling in some cocoon, frantic at points, facing gravitation. And everybody adores somebody. I was matched in a dream, harvesting a fantasy, to see you as does a poet. So indirect, an art we seclude, patient to resurrect, at a temple, palming holy cloth.
