In scrawling minor compositions,
Perhaps I now confirm
The scaling, swelling suppositions:
My residential term.
Fixated to the melting ***,
My skin begins to squirm.

A duty to complete the plot.
Write, rinse, repeat.
Permit the fertile heart to rot.
Of all, my greatest feat
Was rearranging the pieces of mind,
Though the chest had ceased to beat.

Were I to leave them behind
(The colorful personas with whom
I’ve lived in kinship and kind:
The fruits of my creative womb),
They’d surely tread ahead in advance,
Before the sky could reach full bloom.

And when locked within a fictitious dance,
Each step to completion livens.
Cue a heartwarming, back-leading romance;
Take the hand of the contrivance.
Clad in black and instinct raw,
Grin in hand, mask the connivance.

Let barely slip the partial law
Of clinging to reality,
And delay, in turn, the denouement:
The fairness of causality.
I press my hand to a paper cheek
And grant it immortality.

At the height of passion, it seems to peak
The formation of each smiling crack.
Gift me the insanity to speak
To the fantasized cul-de-sac.
And yet, I again become human
When it does not answer back.