It’s
more for art, even ‘ologies, racing through souls. We
pardon
so often, living a contrast, peering through colors.
I
loved her, to find her, a sore afflatus; and something
panicked,
a gray art, a language of fear. We loved—to have
never
touched, composing music. It’s torn calligraphy,
etched
in murals, a daffodil’s sunlight. We couldn’t see,
draped
in costumes, trekking through thickets. Times for
torture,
to search a fulcrum, favored for forest. I watch a
dream,
to prune a garth, dangling as a dreamcatcher.
Our
world—is empty of ink, for dripping blood, a sculpture
uncarved.
I need more, akin to tours, an atmosphere of
feng
shui; and we perish, to grip a chisel, knotted with
snakes.
It’s merely fable, more a metaphor, streaking towards
a
sunbeam; for morbid rain, tears a puppet, to mold a
mannequin;
but she’s a ladybug, even a pendulum, a rose
painted
silver. I’m found for heart, to forfeit rain, where life’s
a
gymnasium; and more to glance, a penchant vase,
streaming
through
memories.
