Psychoanalytic Dreams of an Extra-Dimensional Mind

From items in instants,
all of my experience arrives and finds its manner to a point behind opinion.

Where once was sad, dull plane of unknowing,
here,
if only for a few brief moments,
I ask questions which others before me in time
must have considered without notion or opportunity to record,
as I sense their frightened appeals but am calmed by the answers.

But after I descend, I am left with a shadow of was
– a poorly made impression in memory;

I've the worst of imaginable outcomes
like a lobotomy with only parts remaining
being those for remembering
what's happened and what was lost.

X

Death, my lot in life,
is also for how many?
To know all workings
worsens it to reach them.
Yet a pin punctures - a point
in the languid bowels of was,
and a fool am I to think
that more will make it better.

If only I could return to that place where women chase
cadence with glances from coerced and flaring eyes
of lust and compulsory action I'd planned but seconds before.

I've assured the decorated
I am without -when nude-
Confidence - a worthy skin of mention
referred and worn in times importance is forgot,
much like the end of a cigarette
speaks to write of thoughts
We shared with pleasure:

"I have not anything, or near to it –
a cigarette between fingers I no longer control.
I've given my last to the last with needs."
"So what?"
"Unless… I shouldn't've.
I sit outside the threshold with the last of which I own,
and even the wind wishes me in,
for it takes this from me."

X

Thus everyday reminds tomorrow as she returns,
"I am lost...
Was love the answer 'til next morn?"

Receiving,
"It is but only change
to take in-part from other place."