Portrait to Portrait

Oh for sweetness stranded in ponds and knee high in algae.

I loved her to the best of abilities and ever linked to stress.

We crawled an entire life abandoned to pianos. Love

would shift for darkness two days shy of destruction. It’s

difficult, even impossible, to salvage explosions. We

redeem for parts to exchange for metals where a living

room is retailored. I muse upon a Buddhist piece falling

gently to wonder of true nature. We avoid truth to cleave

to folly afraid to seek therapy. I’m long beyond to rage for

woes where a human altered futures; but I drift to speak of

tales where fortune is a calm hello: un-harassed, well-tempered,

and free of malice. I dream of this voice to utter, The skies

are pure. Indeed, we vision for fruits and seeds to savor for

salts and flavors. Somewhere afar speaks an adult swan. We

listen for both turmoil and warmth of presence. We trim for

hedges found in dialogue ever to hopscotch a mirror; but our

swan pushes fully engrained to gesture with powers. I long for

this wealth a color to mold art where a soul states it sorely,

You’re in error. But more for kites to float a breeze where

cookie crumbs smear a blouse; and more for paint to smudge

a canvas where quarters are pitched against a wall; for through

hell and harvest, love and tears, a swan is jeweled.    

Bulbs

He was in an altered state of consciousness

where she

opened aura of an altered state of consciousness.

They

veered right to unravel veneers to un-layer years

of

calcification. It’s ever in segments to stress

through

cultic limbs

to reach for essence. She underwent tears

of training

parked in space

as grounded as

concrete pillars.

He moves for abstracts to pillage sentences

where nights are dawns for transporting souls. She’s

opus born to wave in cryptic more accustomed to

daylight. Structure is but illusion where she efforts to

distress longstanding pegs. Both are neighbors to

debate in silence ever to season words where vantage

is attitude. Both tussle within

found in study for

humans sorely generated. Sunrise is but a glimpse ever

to examine a shift of vibrations ever to probe a psyche;

for both are challenged

to kayak through

deserted lands.

It frustrates a soul lost in fragmented dialogues to

witness a familiar image;

but life is far away mirrors ever to remind of damage

where luggage unloads turmoil. 

Soul Reach

We ache for love a brilliant love distorted by love. Its

dolphin love and lemur love an aching love. We’re

miles to home thrown into a future where kangaroos

dance. Court me, love; where I feel as a brocket ever

to long for a soothing voice. I partake of Asian waters

so far a land and ever to sit still. We’re curious souls

even flamingos to touch and withdraw. I kissed a

passion adrift for heartache to mold disaster. We cried

for life ten miles to sure feeding finches. Was it spent,

love; a bank account empty and bleeding ashes. I

wrestled a jungle cat to court a cheetah ever to incur

bruises. It was welts to steer a conscience where

headaches ensued; but we loved ever to scream fallin’

into climaxes. How is love a cobra?

—ever torn to match with tornados and groom

alligators running through deserts and ever found in

turmoil. I tear to ponder a gallant soul surging through

life for death ever to protect love. I was born a coyote

to morph into a wolf and ever to surface as a jaguar.

We stood for broken hole in parts to love as friends

where love was satiated by needs. We perish so softly a

repeated cycle longing to mimic a perfect union. 

Soul Search

I embarked upon a sober trail mingling with academia

while molding into a distant yearning. It’s blue and

burgundy and red for darks spinning a concept for love.

I was there to create, longing for inflection where a

soothing voice enchanted a wounded soul, as so to pull

backwards offended for manipulation. What is this trail?

—to exit a vacuum where pressure looms to ever enter

into a world of sensations gilted in motives to chime

with sphinxes to dress for dreams barely able to kiss. I

speak of danger to channel reflection where two are alike

and one is self. I guard a mirror a public mirror to see

for lights blinking our names to fish in esoteric rills

where fear rises a moment stippled in psyches. I wrote

of love a stranded love to flex for love; and stars

deigned for souls to spark where webs grew through

shards ever to severe invisible bones. It’s more an

ensample for swans where many are adults to feel

warmth for a poet. It’s remiss to omit a shadowing need

to bond with innocence despite a life to jade

expectations. I saw for love to quilt a wound where

mind was oblivious to an inner struggle. We were sighted

for riches fully apart afraid to peek into dark rooms. I’m

still ascending to ever let go and feel for an entity

outside of qualifications. This is love for ideals to

soar beyond stations to attain to a height flooded with

compassion. It’s less for notion and more for soul to

puff a square and drift with smoke peering into a sculpted

life where love resides as chief.      

Daydreams

When for daydreams too long, where hearts for venture

sing silent blues? Its metaphysics to thread beyond a

measure of activity; to sing silent blues, where

perception is uncanny; but still to perceive. There’s

a mental lover afloat a desert tour to position for

power. We meet in energy a deafened daydream to

pursue for unphysical. It was here a sun grew to

strengthen structure where sentences flamed fevers.

There’s a teacher turning graves to remember a

young mulatto stuck on destruction to mourn a

bedroom parent. She’s torn a ghost be it lows for highs

a string of theorems blessing our walkway. There’s a

sunlight girl paging winds ghosts on reception where

a locomotive ruptured diamonds. It’s aloof a daydream

to touch for substance wrapped in mind particles,

where onlookers ignore for majesty. When for

daydreams too long to make void delusions packed

away in caves? Its epistemic to wrestle for facts in a

realm of skepticism to swear for a need to thwart

daydreams, where reality is merely perception.        

Is it more a cage to wrestle for words to pull from mind?

—for dreams are segues to hidden activity as esoteric

as sullen glory; where seas for thoughts stream into

rivers captured in a sudden instance. Illusions sing for

plurals to decode realities, where hearts loom for stars

trailing railroad tracks. It’s an art to dream through

conversations to render a solid conclusion; whereto, a

tornado settles into a storm for rain to trickle intelligence

founded in stage-lights; for there’s a method to manage

madness page to page, when clouds have dropped to

take root in ruptured souls. It’s life through shadows to

scream a heart to connect with souls abandoned to an

island of mysteries; but what for delusions moving

through aches where one needs for belief in something

distant from reality? Let one indulge to monitor a

circumference to ensure for reality’s integrity, ever to

guide towards illusions to extract realities; else to build

a cage to grapple with truths to gully insanity; but life

for daydreams to needle an art where mind lives.

Windward

His reach is valleys, to baptize a soul, to chisel naivety.

He’s scorned, even contemned, to balance a tightrope.

Life is more for colors, even nightmares, and countless

joys. In reverse, life is more existence, a terrible myth.

Such is lies, for life is here, positioned between tokes.     

Thoughts are slanted, for life was there, checkered in

turmoil. He plants a seed, to tillage for crops, palming

rain. There’s a sickle for life, a stubborn grain, rooted

in concrete. She tassels words, to unpack stanzas, even

more for life. He transfers a thought, where doves flap

minds, to trickle an epiphany. She pulls a shade, to

retrieve a trinket, ever for ritual. A dance ensues, to

venture through Ka, to structure life. Such are truths,

where life is here, ever to be there; for life is chi, even

breath, a world of magnets. She loves for life, a friend

of life, to peddle a Schwinn. He spins a prayer, to signal

chills, to paint a universe; for life is fey, an inner

Kingdom, even a strobe-light.   

Dream War

So hectic this vice, to roar through cities, fingers filled with ashtrays. I chant for wealth, to strike a cigar, smoke oozing from nostrils. I think for a glass, ever one glass, and ever one dream. The freeway is silent, at seventy miles per hour, lost for seconds before an exit. I’m here again, challenged for vision, ignoring repetition. We’re assiduous, ever in this study, delving into psychic rivers; where I see for silence, a sightless vision, poking at pixels. It’s grand this way, to war with self, a game of Ping-pong. If not the music, vaguely terrified, to digitize a symphony; and three visions shy; and it’s ever this vision. I’m found for moments, scratching at dreams, to bend a fence. It’s ever a childhood, ten years into a psyche, lost at twelve. We argue for justice, to overlook demons, raging over nonsense. Life is hectic this way, to bypass an elephant, in exchange for a gnat. I’m more for thirty years in, building blocks, to excavate a nightmare. I’m past for age, ever distorted, to microwave a feeling. There’s much to ignore, to scribble a thought, to x-ray self; and we clash, to pass as normal, “Where it’s different here.”

I glide through—a steady traffic, to pause at a red light. Birds are soaring, ever a freedom, a sight to mimic. I think of thoughts, and lavish dreams, to war a curse. It was ever a soul, twisted with liquor, to whistle a spell. I felt to love, to mix for media, to crave a minx. We flew for good, lost for bad, sorely enchanted. Walls shattered, to surface truth, a world of lies; where all is fury, a pool of cries, and he-said-she-said. I disappeared, to mimic birds, to form for lightning; and still for grays, a tinted soul, running towards mirrors.    

Stage Light

She’s ever with grace, to ballet storms, a sight for sullen

souls. We live it in prose, to act it in verse, a sphere of

antiques. Its fractured peace, quiescent sorrow, and lofty

woes. I dream a vision, to shade with ink, to costume

a future; for pain is gray, painted in black and white,

mourning auditions. She lilts in anguish, to tip a

mountain, knitting comforts. We love an unseen, forever

cheerful, preaching academics. I reach for texture, to

feign for ignorance, and offer but a smidgen of pie. She

laughs a sun, to scan expressions, and turns quickly.

There’s nightly hooks, parody chides, a world of stress

and lights; where paradise is gray, ever too far, and but a

moment; and what to give—a patient heart, a living

sanctum? I ask—content with nothing, for she gives a

shattered soul. It’s ever a cinema, a world to please, a

tacit music. She tips a toe, to dance a waltz, praying for a

hinge. I call sunlight, a tree of leaves, to surface her smile.

She touches sky, to live a liturgy, spinning through lights. 

Chamber Leakage

They swell gently, where tears flirt, to sigh a deep breath.

He floats through time, to mimic bruises, furnace to

psych. Life is wishing wells, filled to capacity, mourning

a sad breeze. Something for waves, to cross a track, ten

miles from nowhere. It’s a twilight-zone, captured

through butterfly dreams, hiking through nightmares.

He loves for heart, to spin for words, concerned to speak.

Its cyan pains, russet welts, even saffron joys. It’s a

montage, even a mirage, bedded in illusions; where he

lives a voice, to surf a circus, grounded in petals. Love

is full, albeit empty enough—to yearn for more love. He

feels an inrush, for a world is speaking, shifting through

a poem. Its crystals, plus aesthetics, even earthenware

souls. He smiles deeply, a touch of etiquette, even a

soothing vibe. Art is motion, a phantom’s eyes, an

opulent mind. He bathes in lullabies, ever so silent, for

brushing wildly. Selfhood’s a mystery, a stir for Ba to Ka,

even twins to speak. So many anchors, to sail for seas, to

paint a mural. This is tears, even a wet blanket, terrified

neatly. He ponders, to sport a costume, yenning for life. 

My Love II

Oh my love; it’s so terrible, my love; but it was us, my love: dangling from terraces, deeply enchanted, afraid to say, “I need you, my love.” Night is upon us; to sculpt for madness; ever a kiss of poison; and oh we yearn, to flit and fly, and freely to orgasm. I’m lost for words, ever free of words, even glued to words. How is it, my love; to force for love, ever absent of love, spinning through a fortune of love? I ask, jealous of love; for love possesses, even love; and love is warmth, even love. I’m so lost for need, a taste of greed, to feed on love. Are we sound, ever soundless, gripping composure? I cringe to feel, where feelings are chasms, geared towards misery. It was ever to fly, found and lost, sketching for freedom. But what is this thing, to flee a mirror, and see a mirror? It was love, a shackled love, floating through time and space. The trees were never, and ever so green. The fields were never, and ever so pure. I trekked for gardens, chatted with wings, to muse upon loving; for every poet, a touch of death; and every prose, the gift of breath. I love you to love, spinning through letters, to live vicariously. I see you in blankness, to stare at screens, where reality shifts for life. I’m up for down, and down for up, ever to search for balance. It was you, my love; ever so bold, to scold a reflection, tipsy off living vines. I’m shadowed, my love; to reach for vanity, racing through vibe and portrait. Oh my love; it’s so terrible, my love; but it was us, my love, dangling from terraces, deeply enchanted, afraid to say, “I need you, my love.” Day has broken; to mold a feeling; ever to shift for marsh; and still, my love; we drift through patterns, to mourn for love.    

My Love

Burgundy eyes, and pearl moons, my love;

a thought for taboo nights, hung-over.

We’re fresco arms, ever to reach, peering

at insanity. Our words, a rose-garden:

our hearts, a Shunga exhibit. I love you,

as pure as humanity, wrapped in Ukiyoe.

Once so innocent, even neophytes; and

now so dark, to beckon for light; and I

ever knew, to court for danger, a human’s

motif. Our drums, ever our instincts, a

tinge of whimsical. You’re an architect,

sculpting mansions, where bones mourn;

for rhythm shifts, where such is glamour,

even skeptic love.

Mnemonic symbols, my love; even a

nervous ache, my love. I swim for spring,

through elysian eyes, to touch a statuesque

queen. You infuse it, this thing, where all

is purple, and all is green. Such newness,

my love; to shift for waves. I’m exhausted,

to drift through zephyrs, to ponder your

voice. You amaze, as vicious as pure, a

riddle to tiptoe a maze. Is it business, my

love? I must to fathom, a Grecian goddess,

to whisper, “I need you.”  

Love’s Tornado

I love you like a woman loves diamonds; but our eyes are open, where we can’t see. Our doorsteps are darkened, to muse upon a comely love, saturated in selfishness; for I love you if…. This is madness, to creep through minds, partial to insanity; and still, we chisel through nightfall, desperate for sunlight, to wrestle where others forsook love. But you’re so gorgeous; and you’re so tender; and you’re so vicious. I mourn to rant the fringes of love, found in city lights, wrestling to love you. You scream amore, every aspect, and brooding the deepest darkness. We touch to perish; to find for love; a ripple through every crevice. You tug to pull, and pull to tug, nibbling at insanity. We’ve melted a furnace, to break for chains, and ruptured by a curse. Our tears are rivers, and love is grand, ever volcanic. We’re wrist to wrist, for mind to mind, pruning a lotus. Our love is rare, as pure as salt, streaming through books and notes. Here’s a chalice, a holy grail, to consecrate souls. I love you like heaven’s opened, where prayers are tassels, to dangle from hearts. We twist and feud, to love and grind, a spent azure. Our words are liquid, ever to seep, disturbing our psyches. I need to think, to flee a forest, to settle chimes; and you’re need for peace, a yogic calm, spinning through mystic spheres. How have we loved, forever with spears, and ferric shields? We drop for armor, and cleave to life, to chunk an anklet into a river. Our root the deepest earth, girt in compact soil, reaching for oceans. We perish so harshly, to love so gently, sprinkling as light particles. I love you born, speeding through time, a stranger to such turmoil; for ours is torn, a reckless love, living as our addiction.       

Memoir (Love & Loveless)

I’m wrung through, dripping wet, saturated with love; but still afraid, to give as yogis, to wrestle as mystics; for it’s hot for humid, to uplift Ka, where winter ensues. Is love a coop; are there negative aspects; to give, albeit, a sun has fallen? I’m found in ideals, to grapple reality, struggling to stay afloat; but yesterday, ever a heartbeat, even a flowing river, a personality aglow; where to awaken, for a radiant war, to persuade an entity. It’s unlikely; and one wrestles, found in silence, to oil a lamp.     To love the loveless: Is this not a miracle? Are we feeble to love, lost in strengths, confronted by a loveless foe; for to love one worthy of love, is not an extension of love; but to love one that shuns, and even disrespects love, this is a triumph of love. I’m a lost ideal; a churning guilt; where I wonder: What is there for the loveless? But all are worthy of love, even from us, despite hassles, and vicious nuances, Correct?     To complicate matters: What if one is plainly abusive? Is love then a program?     I invested in love, where a person lacked for love, in all of its expressions. It’s a vicious journey; a constant tug-of-war; decorated by abusive behavior.     I walked away, where love was undefined, screeching in the shadows.     Should one take abuse? If so, how much abuse? If the answer is no: Then is love longsuffering?     I venture to believe that we suffer freely if progress is being made. Of course, suffering is here related to emotional, as opposed to physical distress; albeit, emotional stress often takes a toll on the physical.     However, are we not in agreement that physical abuse is absolutely intolerable? I presume that the answer is yes, where many of us were of a different thought pattern at one point in time.     I speak of love for one that is against love, at least in action, unless the person in question is constantly on the receiving in, despite harmful implications.   One may be inclined to act sternly, where only resistance ensues. One may apply tough love, where anger is expressed verbally.     What is the breaking point?     Often we watch as a love one throws away an entire lifespan. Should we wait patiently? If not, how many years should we invest?       

Weather Born II

Its dark-green moons, and burgundy suns, to long for what

ifs. I’m born this way, to pet an iguana, forever wild. The

tides churn, spinning tornados, and scratching chambered

souls. I flee, to return, pointing at a mirrored image. There’s

sorrow there, and rooted anguish, at a sea turtle’s pace.

I conjure an avatar, surfing through Twitter, reading

quotes and sayings. I pause in psychology, to struggle a

psych, sketching affections. So many faces, staring at woes,

where eyes reach for love. It’s earnest this way, to live a

mystery, too brave to feel; but this is myth, where souls

water, to fertile a garden. Its a-cappella waves, pom-pom

smiles, and baroque clothing. It’s ever to hide, chanting a

chorus, to feel a concerto. We’re gone this way, lost in

activities, singing a duet. Let us pause, ever an encore, to

fool a passion. I’d died to see it, a loving grace, fraught

with altruism. So I dare, fallen for short, to scorn an ideal;

and still, a fugue is blaring, a nocturne dove. It’s more this

way, a lingering motif, a need to aspire. So more for waves,

to spin through operas, to sculpt an opus.  

Weather Born

I’m sunny blue, and cyan gray, to wrestle feelings. They

return, to plague a tawny, to float azure. I’m there, to

mesh with violet, if only to imagine. I trek a trail, torn and

tattered, a terrible threshing. It’s hard to buff, a dark-red

spell, kneeling near millponds. The ducks are free, and

freely bound, to soar firebrick thoughts. I’m young, to feel

old, living through actors. Its indigo nights, opaque days,

and blank pages. I’m masked, but ever seen, to draw a

piano; and just a thought, to grip for grass, and pastel plaids.

I want for life, even an image, to probe a psyche; where all

is color, and blazing jazz, found in silence. It’s medium

skies, whitish blues, and orchid tears; for beauty breeds, to

pose a mirror, where eyes turn green. It’s torn a feeling, to

long for images, attracted to one’s mind; and olive weather,

to flip a pearl, if by chance to shift a current. More for

turquoise hearts, ever to tug, to release the best in us. A

thistle breathes, to sway gently, to produce an aqua feeling.

Its steel blue joy, raffled to hormones, shifted by winds. I

smile, two flights below, meditating affections.  

Textbook Love

Karma, my love; to speed through galaxies, petting a tiger.

It’s pure delusion, to love for a myth, to purchase illusions.

We picture so cosmic, a paranormal love, to dangle from

Jupiter; and what of Neptune, highly hypnotized, racing

from jaguars. I chase for essence, fully excavated, to pace

a cave. Here’s an ankh, a symbolic language, to nurture

beauty for roots. You’re a lavender rose, silver thunder,

even magic raptures. I’m driftwood, fully unworthy, to pose

as carpet. I’m even luggage, plus, a yogic tea, to pay for

ransom. We’re cherries, mere buds, ravished by a meerkat.

I must to fawn, where you ponder hertz, a prose made of

Mars. We love so deathly, deaf to love, where a soul panics.

I’m ash for symbol, to color a third eye, living through

shadows. It’s torn for underground, to melt for cloud-born,

trickling into a nightmare. Is it all confetti, a lute of cocaine,

purely through mental? I ask—to love further, to string

with hemp. You’re my halls, ever my clouds, grounded in

distance. I’m merely grass, trampled underfoot; and here

you come, kissing for laughing, found to rub an ear. We

float to mourn, but something is kept, where both are numb.

Our days are sullen joy, to love nightly, among saffron buds.

We’re lost, ever exotic, a patch of tropical flowers. I moan a

cactus, you strike for gold, and our reservoir is mystic. Only

by chance, to nibble apricots, to nurture butterflies. Such

fuchsia dreams, colored with furniture, but two worlds apart.

I’m tatted to live, a tropic nuance, mining for diamonds.

You’re a debutant, a pageant winner, a touch of perfect.

You know for forks and knives and spoons; where life for us—

is more a myth. So teach, love; to know for karma, to speak

for color tones. It’s more a wheel, an incantation, to

overlook flaws. We’re hummingbirds, ever to morph, a pair of

fables.    

Darkness

It’s more abusive, for somewhere low, to enjoy this space.

I reached to it, ever to congregate, with fear to lose it.

Life fueled

a grain, where dungeons spoke love, dark and lonesome love.

Such pain, to drag for dirt, composing woeful prose. I

stood blankly, filled with intimacy, to feign a chessboard.

It’s more for rain,

an entity, flagging down turmoil. We tottered fences, to

wrestle joy, drilled with infusion. Power spoke of darkness,

shadowed in secrets, to slowly perish; where

shadows are comfort, a familiar darkness, bedazzled with

lights.

I heard it, to shatter brains, forever at war. Smaze engulfed

me, ever a gray fog, to live a cave. I was night, to feel day,

where tension engulfed. It increased for pain, to

court for agony, rarely charmed. I walked through meadows,

to

muse upon lilies, where dragons rose. Hell was close, in need

of new accounts, whispering harshly.

It’s still dim, a flaming light, with comfort elusive. I fly to

crawl, and crawl to fly, a mile for abyss. Life is gray, plus for

color, spinning through beauty. A world is vivid, fraught

with fantasy, communing with an angel. We flirt, a

touchless kiss, as faceless as daydreams. I write to breathe,

and

breathe to write, lost in characters; and there’s a woman, a

wit for storms, to challenge facades. We speak in brief, to feel

for darkness, cringing our lot.

I’m found to laugh, at something gray, a world within a

maze. It’s not for lonesome, but ever distant, headed to

London.

Darkness comes, to reckon light, where a soul is grumpy. I

hear for love, a speechless love, as roofless as daydreams;

but ever a feeling, to sculpture a myth, where words come to

life.

We’re here, partly divine, to mingle with darkness. Is it fate,

a canyon trail, aloof to a ladder? I ask, to conjure red eyes,

buffing a picture.    

Squiggly Directions

Life moves this way, to sway a soul, striving for perfection. It’s a different life, fraught with webs, and bulbous eyes. A brow furrows, to mention contempt, where a heart feels shame. We mourn it this way, afraid to jilt it this way. I mentioned shame, a whirlpool of shame, torn through by shame. I live it, to mold it, ever to knit for prose. I remember, ever to forget, lost to city lights. We mingled harshly, to guzzle vats, to inhale madness. It drove a soul, a fraught tryst, even a blueberry jaguar. We died wildly, to awaken with bruises, to chat with strangers. We tore a rug, fond of futures, to struggle for futures. Life was grand this way, to grog for heartaches. Laughs were sad, and nobody channeled. Days were long, and no one inquired. Our smiles were perfect, even a touch of spice—sprinkled with lemon. I loved it, to lose it, a tad bit mad. Life would change, where brows would furrow, to mingle in different circles; and still an outcast, ever a poet, exchanging soul for love. I see it more, a cheerful soul, touched with sorrow; to feel it more, a tender reed, living a verb. It’s all for action, the keel of love, found in sable eyes. We chisel heart, ever an artform, avoiding darts. Life is mission, a grandfather’s clock, to journal time. I’m lost in roses, chasing squirrels, while feeding soul; but mind for gears, to vision such beauty, to ponder a perfect portrait. Her prose is grace, a symbol of light, filled with such stress and life. I’m airborne, to skip a roof, ever to dungeon into soils; and there she stands, a product of rain, pouring through hail and snow. I disappear, afraid to go further, as to summons midnight; but evermore, a night-owl verse, soaring through curse and life. 

To Kayak Ink

I heard to feel a sudden chill afloat,

where eyes burdened a lonely soul.

We grew crops ever to pose staring

into portals round with fallen souls.

It bore into heart, a wealth of forbidden. I struck bells, ever

to roam—a faceless valley. She died in parts, to honor

death, enriched by life. I’m there, a moment in time,

engraving bark. I wrote a mystery, a dreamy-eyed storm,

where hell took form. The alleys are sullen, to outline

breath, to sketch a nightmare. I used soul, to become soul,

lonely at an orange light. What for heart, and starry

dreams, slowly taken for granted. I would have loved in

brief, torn by insanity, cleaving to a climax. We fall this

way, enlove with such luster, to jilt a queen. The earth is

subtle, to shift indelible, where tomorrow screams. I

sketched us here, a jaunty bunch, scorned for oblivious. It’s

all today, a glimmer of ghosts, where hearts illuminate.

Otherwise, another culture—with woven standards. How to

adjust, where justice hovers, set to destroy; but feelings

simmer, as daymares, gentle for destruction. I’m gallant for

such, to yield a pond, to caress midnight. She’s there,

waving goodbye, to evaporate the sun. Wasn’t roses, or

rather a chasm, blazing through bosoms? I sigh for naivety,

an airbrushed fiasco, to frolic with vanity. It was cherry

eyes, an addict’s secret, beating in our chests. The rivers

wailed, to abrade a heart, where passion strangles souls.