I like this stripped-back side to you.
On my phone so I'll just throw out a couple of suggestions:
* Delete "me" - extraneous as you already mention possession with "my heart".
* "Tit" or "lit"? The former makes me giggle. Excuse my childishness.
Overall, you pull this off succinctly.
Your ending was an ominous, fitting finish which I enjoyed.
Imagination can illuminate the depths of darkness, give us visions of the possibilities beyond our abilities to be cohesively coercive. So unless we want to be flailing about in the dark we have to admit these things, although they seemed possessions at one time are taken, beyond our grasp. Our prophylaxis protocols appear frigid for all has not been well. My advice to you: mix up a batch of magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur anyway, let it stew in the juices of its fantastication's phantasmagoria. Then again we mustn't be precociously petulant or we WILL, drown in it. Oh the thought of such fecundity.
Yep. This is animal too. There's an Eavan Boland poem I like called "this moment" and it's okay throughout but what I really love about it is the line she has: "Apples sweeten in the dark". I only compare it with the last line of your poem because it's similarly effective. I like poems like this, you know kind of using words sparingly and trying to go for a strong mood or sense? I'm sure you do ha. Well there's not much new stuff floating around here, I mean on the submits page so this and the other poem have been good to read.
Seems to be one of those poems about the art of poetry. And in this case, I know that feeling.
It's like trying to write something that's devoid of feeling or honesty.
[You have no purpose for writing this; it is not cathartic, nor is it lightening; you just felt like writing, and that's why this poem sucks.]
I put that in brackets because it wasn't meant for you. It's what I tell myself when I'm sitting there doing exactly what I just described--or as you more poetically described, stewing without a cauldron.
I love archive pieces by the way. You've progressed, no doubt, but the genius is hidden throughout even your oldest works, I bet.