A Poem is a Science of Love's wealth
it is not insensate as of science
yet it appears far worse for some reason
still everyone is a poet themselves.
There's no escaping the fate of its tongue.
It lives inside of the self in society.
It reaches every corpuscle of time
Then it seeks to find the answers and again,
"Who am I? How did I arrive at Love?"
--Where do I get off of Desire's Pain?
Of its culminating power to Bend
Toward that only journey from its Scenes.
If not for all The Beauty entailed,
it would become simply an Equation
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