I don't get poetry. But I'll keep trying for what's left of my life. The eros here escaped me. What I felt was despair, partly at myself for being so dense, but partly, too, in the content. There were moments when I maybe almost got it?
I'll read it again one day. Something tells me it might feel different under an entheogenic perspective. Maybe one day I'll ask a loved one to read it to me then. I need to keep trying.
Unrated, because I haven't earned the right.
