love and all, but truly a form of distancing, love among distances, and if in close affection, a love loved for an ideal rather than coherent practice of your biological conquest of history, really, darwinism chose a wrong sparring partner, instead of theology it should have chosen history! love and all, but truly a form of distancing.*

words aren't enough to decipher what i saw,
a tearful girl
on my moonlit path...
ever look at a moon with sunglasses?
i can't love you enough,
because i simply can't love you...
i don't get agitated as such, prostitutes don't lie...
among them i the truth-teller...
i have fewer words to say to encapsulate this...
and poets are indeed the unaknowledged scribblers
of events, so shaded so whole in eyes being
pardoned... i, she, the street moonlit,
i was there once, with a fox she walked past
with mutual calm... why do i have my mother's eyes
to cry with! the guilt of not subscribing
to a mortgage or car insurance i mind to know avoided,
avoided -
and the killer ate with me... i want his mother's eyes!