my sanity perforates at the edges
settled atop your roses, but well hidden underneath the hedges
it appears no other soul could reconcile
the crucifiers, the hunters, you’d all target the vile
the complexity of the barbed wire that runs haphazardly amongst my garden
while wisteria tangles and grows, a simultaneous crux hardens
the insurmountable inexplicableness
how could the self explain?
always understand the gallery will never grasp
might it always be this way?