They called you 'primitive' dear friend,
and I confused in my affections.
How backwards they are!
For it is you who are confused,
and I who am primitive.
I who fall so short of grace,
as to be lost in a sea of darkness,
that though I reach through the bars,
to touch that warm light,
I am imprisoned,
by a love of condition.
I cannot love such as you,
to sit at my side,
and see nothing but goodness.
This poem is about: