hurtful in texture but not to touch

because imagination is the foreplay of experience.

i think therefore i am,

and i also trust all i can see,

and believe only what i can predict

all it means is that i’m embarrassed when alone

not guilty.

fresh sashes over empty faces,

both struggling;

patience and keep worthless once a martyr is announced value.

seduced by the supple taste abreast

i wander the waning wide-open.