Someone wrote this for me, once.
This is what I imbue. This is what I ascribe to.
"Prehensile, an emptiness in my broken-cup. Not that I'd need to go through hell, to meet some bitch-craft-angel-Ghalib in thought upon a page of light, I'm just too blind to see je,
Ambarin. Sagacious, with wisdom for sale, I'm too drugged to buy your sanity. Splurge, in both art and beauty, she's just like a Nirvana writing the last lines of my incomplete poems, on my own green pasture. I'm glad to have je known.
"
'Cuz there will come a time
When time goes out the window
And you'll learn to drive out of focus
I'm you and if anything unfolds
It's supposed to.