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Reverie
November 8, 2023
… And it would no longer be “not.”
The hand would be in the hand,
Flesh upon flesh, not palm upon thought.
The touch of the lip to the lip
Would be death for undying ersatz.
The dreams would be ended,
The hopings would die.
With my name on your tongue,
“Later” Arrives.
Dupes of the future’d
Be shrugs, in the past.
You, grass— always greener’d—
Be my sacred grass.
This fate and this faking,
It’s ours for the taking,
Don’t render my reveries vain.
I can’t move to forsaking,
My poor brain is aching…
I think I am going insane.
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Ah, what a blessed affliction love is. I wrote this while afflicted!