I
topple into thoughts, weakened by my fears, strengthened
by
your presence. I rarely measure up, taking this for
granted.
The grass is evergreen, cities ever bright, to stand
on
your shoulders. Our artful souls, caught in rapture,
walking
mercy. You give it grace, pitching coals, a pyre
high.
The gall of my name, plucking a floret, trekking a
sylvan;
and such vim, dancing eyes, gems pulling a sun. So
bright
a garret, to ponder love, and samba pain. I lament my
voice,
harsh in the winds, digging a grotto; but you forgive,
something
so lightly, keen to blow a kiss. I catch and ponder,
a
mystic gesture, tracing your eyebrows. I’m sated in your
heart,
to heave and wheeze passions. Our spell is mythical, a
lover’s
well, filtered by bias. We flirt and jest, off-centered in
sorrow,
alive and flaming in strengths. Such trenchant rain,
and
piercing intellect, a fire of seduction. What to give: a
wealth
of angst, a city of love, and ever my faith. Nothing
matters,
neither pure nor mire, but only our souls.
