Is it all then just a mystical vision?
A self-flattering conceit of impossible-to-understand men?
Sarcastic rebukes, slithering glances, disagreeable questions.
The dead body that moves by the soul of its own propulsion.
Walking along the river banks, letting the life-blood of memory rush by--
Glancing carefully at the time on the yellow digital clock,
Hoping you won't be late for dinner at Jenny's.
Forget the disease; pain will never kill you, although
Love cries tears that wrinkle your silken overcoat.
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