Lions
are growling, filled with passion, gnawing a soul. I
move
forward, plucking leafs, filtering a lagoon. This is
love,
to see and give, echoing through the winds. A
baby
is crying, yearning for formula, coddled and loved.
This
is mother, years into a psyche, tiptoeing heaven.
Our
seas are quaking, connected to souls, headed for a
forest.
I feel it, ambiguous blessings, turning into nightmares.
Something
sings, a broken sanctum, wailing with a songbird.
Lions
are growling, ethereal love, guiding a group of souls.
I’m
careworn, ever to wrestle, musing upon sunshine.
Feel
a sky, eternal whispers, carving crystal glass. A routine
was
simple, ever complicated, influenced by demons. We
sighed
for peace, a hour of flowers, followed by hell. Awake
a
portrait, staring at glossy eyes, where Jesus wept. A present
is
hectic, sorely consecrated, a froward beginning. Only
Catherine
understood, a holy life, featured in literature.
