the tiny flood
which washes through the cavities in my brain
which fills up those confused parts with mirth
and drains slowly, or quickly, as circumstance demands
it is by itself, alone and uncomfortable,
the prescient martyr
the nagging engineer of faculty
who is ignored by my sanguine arbiter.
what hope is desire laid flat,
what desire is hope made canon?
and what despot causes this mingling?
soon enough, or too long spent, in the maze of Daedalus.
it was your eyes, as ever, that caught me inquiring,
what was the reason that you remembered my name?