My heart is a black torch tonight, unflaming wood
But I row and row in the dark, and turn on the light (at last)
Poetry is inner monologues (and it quarrels with me)
And is virtual reality, a model of a world
Written and poured reality, poured sorrow and dream
At times, I am an autistic child
Shrinking my world and dealing with it obsessively
Afterwards, I pave a way, and light enters my soul
(From now) the inner monologues dip in a little light -
I intend to Shulamith
(A hard interpretative work about the interactions:
Modifying a physical reality, turning it into a symbol)
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