Untitled H

The loneliness so massive.

I start to write,

thinking of a voluptuous curve,

"if nature is a woman

who plays hard to get,

then the poetic romance

of thought and equations

is immortal."

Or is it the poetic thought

of romantic equations ??

Oh this confused apparatus,

brain of mine -

let me write freely !,

lest I again luxuriate

in self's self-constructed shallow shit

of the mundane and maya.