Freud’s murky perspicacity?

Is this a sign? I recall I asked for

Tangibility, not some habit with connections.

Saint Joseph is crying that the lamb of his

Lamb is straying with a prayer.

(Sorry, sir, my manners left with the affair.)

My plan put on a contrary hat when I ran away

With religion. I cannot stop these

Patterns inking through the décor

And Rorschach tests suggesting Daddy issues.

(Or is that Freud’s murky perspicacity?)

My fault dances through my head,

Stealing metaphors from chunks of science I’d abandoned

At the bell…and whispers in the chapel.

(Yet, I’d sell my stuff to protect it.)

Nothing can, at least, live up to its name,

Whereas something took a wrong turn at anger lane;

Emotion has packed her bags.

(Be sure to look upwards, once in a while.

I’ll direct you to the truth;

You only have to accept its validity.)

Stroop now, with five primaries:

Colours are dampeners on my light.

The starred word fades from the bloodstream

Like a poison cured by prince uncharming’s

Kiss against my

Anatomical bow and arrow.

This is not adrenalin. I was not

Looking for the twisted sign, but this is still real.

(I can’t remember where I started,

But I wouldn’t duck out of parentheses.)

The End

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