a soft place and her bosom
Caught inbetween a soft place and her bosom.
Dialectic thinking
is outside of its comfort zone here.
It can only theorize based off concepts.
But, that's just not good enough.
Truth in opinions, shapeshift
into tulpamancy,
for trite explorers of the heart and mind--
self accounts are priggish at most modest.
The joy of my liberties are occultic to the profane.
Hidden infront their faces,
but never seen with their own eyes, as if right between their brows.
Be humbled at the presence one feels, but in thought can not conceive--
try to explain, then sound insane.
You may figure i wrote a verse, but it's a chorus,
and the refrain:
Caught in between a soft place and her bosom.
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