We’re
heartstrings, podium driven, praising Spirit. We
die
it, to live it, scraping hells. We’re printed, to search
the
Book of Life, mourning cartoons. Hear for voice,
probing
rivers, shearing grief. We’re evermore, a
speeding
star, a fire wild.
We
force for freedom, printed with woes, deeply moved.
I
cry for rain, peering through colors, carving a gavel.
Life
is purple this way, a sullen grace, painting feelings.
I
thought for choir, near for glow, somewhat captured.
It’s
something gray, greeted sorely, afflux a blue sea.
It’s
a paradox, to love for rain, seeking freedoms. I
rise—a
fallin’ breath, gripping a birthstone. How for
love,
to witness night, deathly ensouled. I ask, barely
self,
to wrestle evermore.
We’re
volts, piecing folklore, flushing treasures; for so
many
walls, to cut for soul, searching a sunset. I speak,
framing
chessboards, afraid to speak; for life is riddle, an
inner
struggle, a grand casino; and we live, an ancient
letter,
a passion’s appetite. I cried, when flowers rose,
to
mourn a future. Its short—a stroll, a picture on a
ceiling;
but ever we drive, to cull for joys, to reach for
peaks.
