‘Is feeling ever wisdom’s prescience?
Through self or vicarious experience?’
“Well, a lack needs an ‘other’
To let you know you’re ‘only’ better
And that’s all that’s vicarious of sentience.”
She countered with needless sternness.
‘Well then; my sadness takes form in your furnace
Our union, you see,
Is but a notional decree;
For my happiness finds no matching purchase.’
[For my only aniyan, whose rhyming guile coaxed gloom to reconcile with smile]