Identity to what?
when the unclear is what one is so sure of
Hanging on to that like the fool waiting to be pulled away from a slimy rope.
This hoard of chaos that we have become
Polishing it in pride
While still not allowing the light in its might
Wanting to perforate myself to watch those
Abstruse ideas consummating into it
And relish the joy of the encompassing presence in pinching absence
To simply see, to just be..
To be drowned in you and drained of me.
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