intelligence, telling
in this negligence
of what’s
known: this
is not the time
to dress in petals.
flowered perceptions
perfumed
by lust.
must I really
think
there is some
--one
--thing
out
there for
me,
in this
with pretty
please topped
cherries?
merry meet,
merry part.
I have met
that part of me
that hates,
which loves,
who has no
thing to hold on
to, just
smooth-illusioned
mirrors.
fickle
like the sea.
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