I’m
pregnant with love, to ponder a newborn, to touch a tiny
finger.
It’s a beating heart, to irrigate a passion, an imperfect
soul.
I drift and move, ever to feel, a flagrant poetess. She
lives
a metaphor, filled with fragments, tipsy and staggering.
I
shivered to read, a magnet voice, on the fringe of being wild.
Every
art is melodic, moving apace, pulling its reader. I
venture
ablaze, to touch a temple, a majestic fane. Cry my
daymare,
a woman’s angst, as proud as a pyrrhic victory.
I’m
pregnant with love, to map a psyche, lost in sable eyes.
Oh
my agenda, to scrape a Prime Mover, to dispel a passion.
But
what if—a passion of spells, to un-chill a nervous
obsession?
It’s a screenplay, and everyone’s an actor, bent
on
hell; for it lives, a myriad of passions, clashing with
something
normal. I rupture—to count syllables, where a spark
sprouted
a shelter. It’s mystic, love, to dine with fears, warm
enough
to kiss. Tape a rhythm, a glint of gold, as bold as,
“Stay
the night.” Otherwise perish, strangling firewood,
daunted
with screams.
