The mind fills empty potential with ferocious fantastic notions noting naive possibility outside of future's foreboding

But my image is quickly corroding, time's caustic nature instigating my painting's eroding and tainting the dreams I've been toting

My illusive fantasy simply couldn't be, a fairly farce future that reality couldn't see, but I pressed for it so impolitely, now it revisits me nightly

I know it's rightly dangerous thinking of things that might be but they push they're way inside me slightly slipping and sinking into my mind despite me fighting and frightfully trying to hold on tightly,

Now I permanently face the incessant resurrection of my psyche's insurrection to reality's lackluster perception of this painting's perfection

I never should have pursued this crude gesture I painted of her ****, not of her body but of her thoughts, though maybe just as lewd, I expected them to be profound and without interlude but these are facts of existence the universe didn't include

I wrongly thought of her as a partner for gleaning the meaning of particles and their organized convening to allow the formation of conscious beings

But she already found her specific god of speculation, he has an appropriate deprecation of false idolization, I thought it was simply healthy appreciation, sadly after an eternity of intense anticipation I was met with the realization that she couldn't be the deity of my imagination, she couldn't understand my late night cogitation, much less save me from my suicide ideation,

No one could,
No one can,
And it would be selfish for me to wish this loneliness on another soul, for me to expect anyone to fill that role.