Fingertips
mourn, to speak of beauty, a nymph to breathe.
Every
kernel screams, to touch joy, struck with soreness.
It’s
ever a missile, to strike a heart, a woman’s glory. I
watch
for sunbeams, a magnetic soul, parched for love.
Hear
a concert, if only a snapshot, for this is love. It’s
something
primal, an inner contraption, fully dazzled. I
brush
a painting, ever to gaze, streaming through aches.
Is
it righteous, the lot of a wolf, paining through a pulse?
I’m
flung, to grip a keel, staring at bulbous diamonds.
I’ve
lost to win, where a mermaid drifts upon a pony. It’s
more
a grave, to love unrequited, starving for piety. Feel
a
storm, electric gravity, a moving undulation. I sense a
star,
lightsome with sorrow, to muse my very soul; but a
falcon
soars, to jilt a star, unworthy of trust. How has it
lived?
fully inflamed, a false reflection, enlove with images.
Let
a night be gentle, august with lights, a flannel of wings.
Else
we perish, strapped to pegs, mourning eruption. Is
this life, to flirt
with grief, stranded to a page?
