This world I may open my eyes to
tomorrow is the cradle of form.
Image is some sort of deity here
but the world between my eyes
the inner one of the heart
is the fountainhead of meaning.
My love for this which I can't describe-
nor want to, is what keeps me up at night.
All I know is that when you come around
words are no longer words
I am no longer me
sight is no longer seeing
and opposites meet like lovers
between random sheets in sleeping streets.
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