Torn

He sat out in the afternoon, the sun was fading, though he did not notice, a question had, in sheer tenacity breeched borders normally in place inside his busy mind. He knew, of course, that men think with their heads, it is what sets them well apart from those whose tears and innate fears make mockery of thought, whose logic pre-presumes that all convention and all etiquette is doomed before it is conceived by imbeciles in suits. His puzzle was, in simple terms that he had been besieged by lust, or so he named it for her human flesh, while through the night and for all hours of each day his eyes went sanpaku, retreating well, in part into the upper reaches of and underneath the sockets in a vain attempt to dwell inside the mind of her, where all that made her what he treasured so resided in platonic peace, he feared a lack of room, of plain capacity to hold both entities, and he was torn between and turned salto mortale like onto his head. He shook it slowly and concluded sadly that it was the one and not the other that would supersede opposing force......... then, a shadow settled on his hairy face, it was an image he adored, and as she sat upon his knee he felt her soften and make room and so they probed, until the answer came, it trickled, oozed and then like Mount Vesuvius it did draw a line, and there, in hieroglyphs the answer stood. And all was good.