I’m
somewhere imperfect, asearch for likeness, a tear to withdraw. So many
scruples, to want for sin, condemned for deeds. How to settle—a fevered soul,
staring at a psych? I ask, clever to pass, undergoing rapture. She’s keen, keen
enough, to tug and pull. I mind it not, forever we tug, head high in motions. A
sun drizzles, an elegant dove, even an eyelash. I’m so for love, the thrall of
love, a fortune in time; but more the rain, a portfolio of scars, eyes blurry
with tears. We caress a wound, tempted to scream, a thing unsocial; but what
for death, to clear a psyche, gazing at wolves. She’s torn asunder, where no
one sees, ever to laugh a perfect dance; but pain is gray, as gray as eyes,
peering into grayness. So ever for candor, a sore intrusion, a bruise upon
flesh; for we’re somewhere imperfect, ever to endeavor, to endear a wound; and
fallen skies, a shred of grace, shattered for peace. I filter rain, a twig for
nerves, inflamed serenely; and there she sits, ever in pain, an imperfect
photo. Deep for yore, a casket moved, a graveyard spoke mystic; and here we
live, trekking yards, to shatter a casket; and but a mirror, a graven
headstone, scribing a vignette. I hold her far, nestled in woes, etching a
polar storm. Is this a cause, to mangle souls, dying through smiles? I ask—for
no reply, basking in sorrows; but live a night, where riddles come, to pause a
mirror. It’s ever an image, where souls for perish, bathing in sunlight. Such
is death, a twofold meaning, a game of Ping-Pong; and what to give: a moment’s
rest, grounded in limelight? I ask—for no reply, sprinkling stardust.
