do you think that it seems too infinite for a man to abandon disillusionment for the price of carrying a lifeless life (for she is in you) (for she is not with you) for she is a reality?
For you are in her reality, and vice versa
it be harsh, not hearsay. Do you hear?
Infinite mumblings of murdered dreams, of gratified extensions
of your dreams entwined with hers? Do you think she encompasses your inability to encompass yourself?
That the heart reaches into its inner aimlessness, it is a live act of maliciousness
primed for dance, the chance to be entwined with aimless stars
you create
for her to shut out; another pout on your puffy lips.
Another spark of love in hers.
Do you think she knows? She knows your knowing her knowledge that it will never be?
And then you assume, that is what we the hollow do.
"To prevent the pain," we say.
And in a way, we are the same.
We are to blame of the chains you wear when you hold him.
Is it a whim, no. A dream, but not within.
It's in a stream called "myth."
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