It is...

what is it?

What travels through

this synaptic confusion?

Hypocricy...

Idiocy...

Phallasy?

Two over and torn,

It is less than

It claims to be.

It is the empty soul,

the dry pen,

the longing,

like an ass

following a carrot

on a stick.

It is wrapped in satin,

laid upon silk sheets.

It is whatever fancy desires,

blossoming flowers,

petals curvatious and taught,

snared like a Venus.

It is whatever.