Why is my love so frail, seeking only comfort
among shadows that can’t be had —
the taken? Dismissing love for foolish labour
— the last line passed a long long time ago.
Their pause to consider, to reconsider, I envy
those that never found doubt
among the weary thoughts
hounding the everyday.
Why is my love so frail, finding only comfort
in pissing on a stick — plus or a single minus
to determine the fate of a multiverse
of minds.
Why is my love so frail, spineless I seek another
path towards the final binding.
Why is my love so frail. So pale.