[I Knew to Know You] a poem

I’ve chased you before
though your face is new to me.
I dream of you so often,
nightmares have no place to be,
& intensely alive,
the news of your is always breaking,
the talk of the town,
unanimously unsaid & known
amongst friends who’ve witnessed
my descent into doldrum
faces forward in crowds
cannot truly ever reveal what’s
against an unconscious oppression-
then,

the ones insisting,
persisting on knowing,
flail in wait for a slave to
free them,
inventing little worth
to the mathematics well remaining
a cipher, where a glance stays
lit awaiting an apocalypse
ever-threatening arrival
the fantasy is not for sale,
so this stillness in soul,
this measured, meticulous hope,
can only be genuine
to the world-end degree,
inhaling what’s exhaled



Dontrell Lovet't 
from, [The Failed Writer]