can I handle the season of older,
took my~love, and took it down,
till the hymnodist laughed,
do not forget,
she shrieked,
old and gold are symmetrically synchronized,
synced, not sink!

what you want to think, is always,
never what you
true believe,
as long as you breathe,
a miner for hearts of love you are,
start in the capillaries, onto the arteries, and deep into the
pumping machine,
which calls out in indignation,
you human, are mine,
and as long as you mine,
for the cup that-is-not-illusory,
always and eternal, l think not,
for you have already tasted love's holy water,
leaving you, leaving you with an undying thirst,
for more,
the gold apogee on our elliptical trajectory,
where the she~sharing-oxygen once displaced
in a race
to be supplanted,
but that must be won,

when/where  the golden aura supplants
the necessities,
and the liquid gold will
replace, re-p-aces your almost now used up blood,
endlessly re~circulating,
subject to the  the critical cortical critique of
insufficient,
no más, for never enough,

gold and love,
like sync and swim
together  in time,
in rhyme,
how could you not know
this absolute
is a
scientific fact?