After the Harvest

For you my dear, of glistening gold and hues of blue, A mirage created by the constructs of feeble minds. Our ability to connect is truly frayed, a romance delayed, Short as the breath of some insectoid, bent on lustful satisfaction. Are you even real? If so, very little time is spent on the marvelous experience that is joy. Pure and free of the adultery which is an office and a cage. The highways connected like the arteries of some foul beast, Circulating through the body with the opioids of ignorance and indifference. How is it that you would like to pronounce my name, Would you make a gentle song out of it and lull to me sleep? Or spit at my face with anger and disgust? I have yet to know the ailments and disease of a life full of unhappiness, For I have not lived one. To yearn for your touch in the waking slumber of the schoolyard is to daydream, But not of my distant hopes and visions of accomplishment. But of truth, brought forth through the neutrality of time. It is the waiting game, which I cannot live through, A wasteland filled with the death of youth and innocence. Their ghosts, specters that drain from you all the creativity and imagination Of a child, to alter you into the grotesque twisted form of a worker ant. Subduing the hearts desires with binds Made of paychecks and the disillusionment of having importance. But you are no fake, nor cheap reenactment of some unholy war. You pulse and vibrate with the magnificence of laughter. Your tears shred through my dissected emotions. Freeing me, no, all of us from the confines of having just one feeling. Broadening our mental scopes, How can I feel hate and love at once? We were taught that they were polar opposites, not of the same lineage. And so I say to you With the unflinching eyes of man decapitated on the stump of an oak. That I hate, love, fear, admire, and envy you. Following your cycle of death and rebirth.