And if I looked up and didn’t see some dumb ball,
I’d be sad?
I don’t see why.
A reliance on a state of mind.
A weakness given to the whims
of chemical receptacles
whose preferences consist of settings
where light meets darkness.
Contrasting visual stimulus.
An iron fist is the way to go,
though.
A series of synapse manips.
Maximizing delta utils.
Flux. I’m riding dives and dips.
Any other way is futile.
And doing this I snap the cold.
From a rush of love or joy or flirty retorts
to scraping kitchen mold
or itemizing expense reports.
No longer waxing on that sickle circle
to provide me with that pale shade.
My time too valuable for trade,
and my heart has never waned invisible.
acraein 
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