or the victim,
this thrumming summer tide -
an adrenal ocean froment
somewhere,
(and unforgettably near to the bowels),
is at times mentioned as a reason for living.
Paradoxically
people would die for feelings like this,
and it does give us something to drown in, though
this would be an admission of defeat
to the seasoned modern warrior.
Tempered in such heat
things may develop
at their own pace and
within their own contexts,
but is that any excuse for this??
Dreams become complex,
expectations and desires press them,
make heady wine
dissociative in its effect,
somewhat like absinthe in fact.
It is easy to see why they say
that the great poets and artists
got drunk on absinthe,
it is the closest thing
to an amniotic fluid of doubt
in which sensitives of the world swim about.
Not to say that this is immature,
(well maybe),
but life is nothing without its kiss,
but derided dust without its kiss.
To say that true feelings
can be accurately separated here from delusions
would not be true,
and one can perhaps 'protest too much'
of what is, at best,
a tremulous conviction.
This belies a predilection
for rhapsodic fantasies and
delusionist nighttime luxuries of
simultaneous solitude and company.
Perhaps it is only an
ambiguous schism
that is delightful, also
torturous in its many small and
perpetual betrayals,
breathing is sweetly rendered nonetheless.
Daring is encouragd by shouting blood,
and there is a delicious horror can be felt when
even minute transgressions rear their head.
It pleasantly confuses as weighed,
upon divine and delicately tared scales
are each subsequent action,
whether expression profound
or imbecilic absolute,
(at best a point-mute),
and subtleties of entropy
become the greatest boon,
the fiercest, most inimitable of enemies.
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