Whereas I could cement like barnacles on the side of your ship,
You may always find me like a locket between your sweater hidden breasts.
Nothing I saw and nothing I felt could have prepared me,
While I was lost in the translation of a burgeoning digital era
Somewhere in the rust-budding gearwork of a liver spotting clock;
It is evident that things always do rot from the inside-out.
But nothing I saw and nothing I felt could have prepared me
For what you have become;
Thereafter stuck on something I saw —
It is my analogue heart —
Where I imprint as a freak thereof —
Betwixt your passion and my own mortal instinct
On a rendezvous with mother nature;
Moving like a bowling ball pursuing a turkey strike,
Melting like a sweat drop on a reflective head.