When logic begins to listen to the heart,
What it wants, what it will never have,
Cannot leave the past to rot,
The cycle should have turned to soil by now,
Nothing grows, no richness sown,
Infected by the traces that blight the new.
Irruptive, I’m indignant.
Hell hath no fury like a woman ridden with malady.
Bore by your compression,
bet you wish you could reverse.
Wasn’t such a wise exercise.