If through analysis of every word I have
and – through algorithmic rememorising –
the rote of repetition does take
a highly grounded
morality of curious kinds –
and keep this in mind: I no longer mind; in
fact, I rather
do feel a tad honoured and nobled –
then why do you make it so
difficult for me to
express and redress to the real
object of my love the depth and sincerity
of my feelings and dealings?
Why do you deny the game
you have played?
Why do you see the need?
Why not read
what about you I write now?
Why not respond and engage, and openly
amuse, and retain
and marry that beauty
with those brains?