Cumbersome

O Chronic social pest of voluminous tomes and dusted leather bound pages cracked and yellowed with dust mite refuse you make me sing and yet my heart as yet unreached in full by your endless opinions and social critics calls out to great stone crosses through whom I reach to dance behind the triune pas de trois in vain attempts of following celestial choreography while you pull note beyond note from hidden places and I sit in wild contemplation of why you could never be enough and how something insubstantial could fill my being like ethanal's sweet assault where her constant attentions lend strong increase to neural inhibitions whose heartless ravages dig deeper holes than playground miniaturized oil sands buckets like giant dinosours shrunk down for chubby mini mouse arms to dig deep enough for clay lost bandaids and broken child hood dreams of handsome princes who had all the answers yet the deepest holes have the surest lessons and my nails are packed hard with dirt from climbing and my knuckles split and raw from angry punches against encasing walled hollow pillars of dirt topped with Corinthian elegance to frame where only window's view serves as a star studded roof more glorious still than the stars of Notre Dame and all my prayers turn for rain and then against in rapid succession since a flood might float me out but then again it is more likely I would drown you are like that Scholastic Prince Chronic social pest and so is He except that He has the whole of time and space and all the Doctor Who Confidential's ever made pinned up in elegant brocade in the back room of his country house and you have an old cheese sandwich smelling up your couch because you fell asleep eating one time and forgot about it and your mind was too busy thinking of ways to be smarter than I could ever be but He is omniscient and full of forgiveness and the theology of this poem is questionable at best but who wants a God who doesn't watch TV given that choice I might even pick you.