Concupiscent you cling to a truth like a demon,
but please, contain your self.
By all means, exert, but once in a while,
rest, the illusion of love is love
and you have always known this, like cherries
and ice cream and pictures of Mount Fuji.
One who has found yourself in a dangerous dream,
scuttling like a spider across a tenuous floor
in a room null and void. Easy to chase butterflies
but difficult to catch them, who on Earth would wish to?
If they are not truly human. This is paradox
or the prescience of a dream. This is Autumn
or so it must seem, to you and me, cajoling the moon
as it craves the equinox. We are haikus,
one too many syllables, but what does it matter!
Who the fuck cares!