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,
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.
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."
"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."
Thus everyday reminds tomorrow as she returns,
"I am lost...
Was love the answer 'til next morn?"
"It is but only change
to take in-part from other place."