The probabilities
He pessimistically took my jar, left me ajar
The attentive class left us with a decent professor
Often, hiding in books, and avoiding the seasons
My heart is an apocalypse, that tells me that Hell is where I am
Thre prodigious repleting the accidental lake, the isle on the Sun
The cloudy stars, and counting of the shooting stars
And the quills bloodied by the changing trapdoor, lurking behind
The gallows pole and the halo's gone, and the named nameless
Reinventing required him to be universally concomitant
When few people have imagination, really
And relativity of the realistic destiny, and the self-conscious of distasteful poetry
You can dream and you have begun, but, boldness has the imagination befuddled
Often the will left to the imagination can cultivate a passion
And your pursuits and your perception of me might leave with the reposing soul
The deposition of which is my lover's ordeal and steadfast strength
Low on pursuits, and mild on perceiving the highs and lows