There is a constant struggle of choice,
a dark abyss of confusion lay beneath.
The muddled words stay untold,
the mind whine.

Am I frigid,
an unromantic.
who cannot spring to life,
with your mere touch, am i dead?

The warmth of fresh brewed coffee,
a delirium of the fine poison.
Sets in, and i sense your presense,
and smell, wild being.