Our choice of poison is devotion, too much: inebriated. too little: insufficient. Our choice of diction, susceptible, an anomaly: dissected in a lab table. Poked by: forceps wielded by gloved hands. There is no mystery to our misery, because the venom of our loneliness is a composition of our aesthetics.
I do love to analyze poems, however I disagree with some that there is one single meaning to a poem.