It's a deafening sound
that you can't quite glean,
it's a gaping yawn
that suggests the chasm,
it's that nook in her bosom
where once you were put to rest,
and it's that protrusive gaze
that swells in bristled skin.
They lead you to think,
they invade your dreams,
they dwell in your thoughts,
and even rend your seams.
But in the end
we are all just shadows
at the ensuing eventide,
and in the end
we are all the same
yet parried is our grasp
of our congruent collaterality.
