Confusion grows like the grass in
spring whenever
You ask me what I feel about our
relationship
And what I mean is that the
swaying weeds in the river
Entangle the propellers of our
vessel and grip
Us to the shore but your
intentions are quite other:
You want me to confess my wish to
slip away
Unperceived, out of the
night—don’t ask me why.
It’s like a piece of poetry that
tries to smother
All its ideas under the weight of
rhyme,
And its metre procrastinates,
skips a beat,
And all the while, I hope my best
endeavour
Will please you at least,
darling, this one last time,
Since all the passions in my
heart are incomplete
And yet are all I have to offer in
this debate
Is something all too prosaic,
with leaden feet.
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