Like you, everyone seems to come to me for a conclusion,
a candy laced with liquorice, and cream, and chocolate!
I am imbibing of something else, in fact, a poem, so steely,
that it offers resistance in silent esotericism between the lines,
beneath the black and white of words, the grey of aphoristic
obliqueness, where the tangent rides right into your profferments,
striking their core with its petals, sharp as metal, and yet seeming feathery!
Am I to blame for the expectations of others? …when you call me
friend with underlying aspiration or desire? Words are needless in their conjecture…
If you dabble or wallow or contend in, and with, my poetics; they
are just not only esoteric, but hiding places, where even meaning
can become an unmeaning, and even beautiful messages can
actually be missives. I have no yearning to keep everyone on
a hanging thread, but I am not exactly conducive/ congenial to
what I am being granted. You see, love is not a lone hillock with
its peak pointing only to one place in the sky, nor is it only a flat
undulating meadow. I don’t think I want treacle, or even honey, for that matter,
when I know what Paradisical ambrosia is like! Is that an overstatement, then?
Does that barricade the streets you all want to drag me into by the strands of
my hair? I can tell you all that I want nothing else but my perfection, if that
should cause you all the aftershock of all your actions, like an impasse!
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