The id and the ego,
between them a tango
dancing the evening away.
Casting their shadows,
dancing in meadows
a game they both like to play.
pallbearers in a funeral for fun.
Onward they’re marching, humming along
ho humedy ho humedy hum hum. Hiding beneath screened netting and mirrors
reflections create a deterrent as well;
while you throw your pennies in the wishing well
and try as you may to repress your desires,
however this occupation will never retire,
maintain it at bay and it only climbs higher And all you will have done for yourself is tire; because you feed it so well; fuel for the fire. The id is so clever
and hot. Sexy psychoanalytic plot. Like bubbles churning o’er their pot, or a cauldron mixed by Witches brew
amalgam of herbal tonic and cordial rescue
all with intent to mindfully eschew … But the bubbles churn o’er their pot,
and in their translucence catch micro-reflections
with some inclination of micro-projections
and recognize inside of the boiling pot
who you are and who you are not,
seething projectiles and desires
like loaded Rorschach inkblots.