The maze of doubt gets trickier,
unmanifesting,
and slowly fades from light.
I grope beneath its shroud,
outside the length of your arms
and can inch no closer now
only to get dressed down
again; scathing remarks
shot from a skewered mood.
Or maybe it’s all true.
Clutching behind love
and squirt of primal lust
this soul travels alone;
left, perhaps, to follow
the heart’s grander swell,
distilled into a pure
distribution of smaller
but complete offerings.
Fewer promises, too.