I
remember sunflowers, speeding into consciousness, a
touch
of wonder, where a daffodil sprung a smile. But
I
sit, presently in flux, mixing a box of pressures.
Emotions
play a harp, a tour of snares, where silence
builds
in waves. Such sightless music, ever vivid,
thrumming
both heart and soul. Feel such wings, classical
duets,
even a strong quartet. Open a locket, read into a
smile,
ever to catch self. It’s dearly an opus, a set of ghosts,
august
within a psyche. So many keys—to unlock a soul,
where
one tests structure. Its color and sound, plus,
opaque
rules, resistant to structure. Such provokes mesto,
a
private affair, to tickle a lute. But I remember sunflowers,
seeping
into consciousness, a touch of thunder. What has
come
this soul? a somber glance, a pensive brow, plus, a
wistful
kiss. Thus, more for angst, and bottled tensions,
pining
for yesterday; and more for pain, sitting silent,
unseen
by confusion.
