(sweet is the fruit we harvested and rich is the wine it gave)
it is this illogical pondering 'bout neighbour grass
it is not that i got bored per se
(rare is the laughter, not fake; shy is the thrill, not taken)
it is this joy i won't allow to blossom
it is not plug-pulling in itself
(intact remain the reasons that unified; powerful still, the urge for feedback)
it is this thirst that can't be quenched
it is not that i mean to bruise you
it is this wrath that bursts unfounded
it is this insecurity-born shadow, erasing our light
it is this insecurity-born shadow, erasing our light
it is that i launched love your way
without ever doing it towards myself
1 comment:
Fulfilment is its own cement,
Perhaps an infinite soul has infinite longings - until it is plugged in to itself?
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