Untitled

The thick irony

      That weighs

                     Down

The gossamer cloud—

On which you flew into the arms of your lover during moonlit nights, and let him protect you from the harsh bitter breathing of the outsider, who did not see it your way, and tried to pull your dreams apart—

Until it

B  r  e  a  k  s

Right down the middle,

And you fall

            Through

To the hard, cold pavement

Of reality—

Because your lover, and your dreams are ideal,

But not real

Is

Just

That—

Ironic.

Because love-making is

            French

For

            Fucking

      And seduction is simply a means to acquire

Pleasure.

Yet here I am,

In his arms,

And I’m

falling

all

over

again.

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