Is
it winsome love, a probing love, to capture love? She’s
an
architect, showing signs, a jealous love. I grieve to
feel,
to surface miracles, an all night love. Maybe a
glass,
to sip for hours, to feel for love. I leave—adrift,
to
ponder for tours, bold in disposition.
Remain
an ideal,
ever
human, to raise a voice; for
I
sigh, “Silence,” to drink for
love,
a filtered love.
It
whispers, a sullen scar, wounded with woes; but she
lilts
for heart, to grip a soul, a statuesque queen. Such for
mind,
a torn abyss, filled with beauty. I stress to pass, to
mold
a light, fastened to a universe. I’m struck for
thunder,
to build a settee, to kneel for soul; and there she
sits,
to nurse an ache, to rinse a scar. We soak in sorrow,
with
teary laughs, nursing a murky wine. It’s tender—a
warmth,
folded in pleats, for a texture rich.
We
find a smile, a game of chess, careful to comfort. It’s
all
a trance, a torch aflame, heavy with soul. I’m sightly
whelmed,
a touch to soar, locked in charms. We tip a
spout,
to print a light, a world of symphonies. Its core a
tear,
a stemming faith, for sacred qualities. We pause, a
bit
naïve, to tip a spell. I’m found for lost, to grip a note,
turned
for spinning.
