You, Not So Sublime, you say, yet precious to my eye
And ear and everything, and yes, the tips of all these nimble limbs are you,
I can see you, deep, there, in my mind.
I see you stepping through a shaded hollow walking,
Toward me with the whitest shine back-lighting,
The darkest image of, does not undo the you in you,
And your shadow keeps me company in this bright, all-shimmers world

What I can see, is simple mystery to thee and all
Yet I see it, I can see it, so my something says it must be there
What does this do of me? What does this make to you?
Is it intense? So intensely overbearing and so painful to the feel?
Because I sense it, but my sensing does not help its happening
Nor does it prove it false, and it cannot, and it will not prove your figments in the fog

We are pangs of wisdom to ourselves, and how our selves they shy away.
But what can we become? What can we believe if someone does not say it?
I believe in this so wretched thing, this romau
The very word sends me to shutters as it buries you in drink
But so insane are we! So insane that we cannot find fault in each other for the feeling
For the movement! For the juts and simple gifts we swear, in lies, we can resist!
I can only hear because you speak, and I can only laugh because you move
And this I cannot chance another beaten bosom on.

This I cannot chance another broken soul upon,
That you should find such fault in circumstance, perfect circumstance
As to justify my breaking. As to help me make me who I need to be.
It is not ordered by your steps! So do not trouble yourself by it!
Do not work your heart into a lying frenzy over what our souls can take!
Because the world is nothing but a spoon that stops a constant stream
And as we sip from it, we see ourselves upsided-down and fear
And all the while the stream keeps pouring and pouring and we are mesmerized away

But this is different from the world. This is different from the metaphor
This is this. And I will stay.


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