Signs are Blinking

Sketch a dream, my love.

Paint it upon souls. I ask with

such trepidation, lighting a kiln,

buffing a bridge. We’ve

died so young, dearly puzzled,

wound for wound. I cry

purple, streaming velvet lights,

adopted by love. It was

ever gray, a host of shattered

glass. We kneeled, bleeding

life, scooping up shards of love.

Read a woodblock, wailing

its vision, knee high in sorrows.

Art shall come, as gothic

as fog, parachuting dreams. But

what of this life, nearly

incarnate, fraught with

turbulence? It was ever our doing,

trapped in our genes, exulted by

death. Our compassion,

as hectic as violence, cringing a

welcomed goodbye. How to

dine, a host of whispers, pointing

fingers?  But dream, my

love. Paint it upon souls. I ask,

free of fear, flirting with visions.

It’s ever our minds, ever to

joust, a prayer of swords.

In love,

variables are forever, forever

with love.