The fields, drenched with rain.
Weeds and intentions benefit.
My heart expands exponentially.
Your love pours down on me,
but delicately, as soft as silken
threads, ones woven masterfully.
I find myself incapacitated, numb.
Life is fucking with me in jest, yes?
Surely, you are a figment of reality?
I never dare trust my imagination,
not when dreams unravel in dreams.
I could just as easily awaken to a void.
Yourself, A mere trifle, a pipe dream.
How would I possibly know the truth
from the hard impossibility of fiction?
I wish an indication, proof of life, existed.