Wishful Linking
Daisy chains sit within fractals,
ever-expanding around the Merlionsman, as he
constantly individuates;
someone has been to lackadaisical
with destiny, with fate,
you think.
But couldn’t there be another expression,
another explanation
for what keeps pushing you, not me, to the brink?
Couldn’t there be another approach to rationality,
subjectivity—
too much logic
or too little? Is it a trick
of the fight? Or is it magic
that should somehow make things right
without you blinking?
Could we call it intuition? A gestalt? Maybe a meeting
of minds? So that you can claim the emotion isn’t original;
that whatever is left behind
is from me? Dare you defy
your own senses?
Your own psychoemotional defenses?
Or dare you, instead,
to open up the sky again,
and drift out on the tides of death
so that you, and Life, and I
might once more be true, undying friends?