You\'re silent. There\'s too much love to contemplate.
Whatever you say, due to the anatomy of reception,
Is yours to enforce and theirs to forget, or ignore;
If they\'re scared, they\'ll laugh or mock you;
If they can\'t become the spectre which loosens
The self-made figure of thought we find in death
Then they groove their identity from fury
And pride, no matter how cheap it is, it is theirs.
You count the numbers of limbo. It is created.
It\'s useless; just as the words I\'ve said...