This bewildering nonsense of feeling
beyond syllabic verse, this intoxicated
artistry that's useless, this obstinance
and ignorance in the face of glory. This
love isn't moving and doesn't have a name
that I can recall. Whatever constitutes
the real seems so confused, I can't say
what I want or need. In the beginning, I
was this totality. What is it that renders
us so decadently? This bewildering love
is the invitation to death. This nonsense
announces a life of delusion, I cannot
explain the separation. This intoxicated
madness hasn't brought me closer to her.
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