Before the rain sets, before false compensations,
taking it for all it's worth, grasping for the gold
following the false pretenses
and erroneous gestures and painstaking compulsions
I appreciate the solitude in my conscious being
I smell the nostalgia of unfinished summers
I clench the shattered glass of the broken mirror
and at daybreak, I mourn the dreams of the previous night
only real to the dreamer and consequently
a testament of perfections and indulgences
like a child thrust into the cold, bright world
I feel that I am that infant, and the womb rejects my insecurity.
The mathematics of the mind overpower the senses
in a matrix of neurons and integrated highways of transmitters
in my cradled head of unconscious thoughts
rests the secrets that I unveil to my Freudian viewers
my guilty pleasures and my childhood confrontations.
The dream is realized, and its dramatic climax
only shadows, only visions,
like the movie-screen kiss, like the uncertain death.
Who controls these inner t