The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...

And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.