Limbic

In dreams I find myself at a loss for words
It is only then that I act without the pollution of thought
Without the corruption of contemplation
I fold into you, a victim of your pulchritude
And whether my capitulation to your tides
Is gentle or overzealous varies as to the phase of the moon
The presence of its shine in my veins shifts accordingly

But rest assured, in the end
I give myself to you, reveries be damned
At least when I wake, I am forfeit of mortification
While simultaneously bereft that it never even happened
Such an ambivalent conundrum



Credits
Writer(s): Jacob Dring
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