Go home. It's never what you think it is,
The kiss, the diamond, the slamdance pulse in the wrist.
Nothing is true, my dear, not even this
Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist
On perceiving in my glance. Please just
Go. Home is never what you think it is.
Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist
Is always almost just about to lift.
Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this
Candle can explain its searing twist
Of flame mounted on cool amethyst.
Go on home—not where you think it is,
But where you would expect its comfort least,
In still-black stars our century will miss
Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this
Faith we grind up with denial: grist
To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst.
Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is.
Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.
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