More
for soul-quakes,
certain
pillars of love, a spool of
undulations.
Your yoke is heavy,
to
love me asleep,
speaking
to a mystery. I hold you
afar,
gripping grass,
where
leaves ascend through
winds.
There’s a garth,
somewhere
a psyche, tilled by angels. I’m close to
land,
mystique an island, a mile through sable eyes.
Cry
for
passion, to circuit passion, an intimate passion;
but
oh
so distant, a printed soul, a guardian of fears.
You
wail,
semi-torn, kneeling through song-prints. I leap to
catch,
as luminous as failure, webbed in portraits.
You’ve
died so often, closely crumbled, ever for love.
I
thunder through storms, to perish through lights, a
soul
of mandolins. How have you loved, a dream of
sorts,
condemning would be mistakes? I cater to grains,
soul
of my soul, aspark a midnight train. You pull for
comfort,
amazed by mirrors, afraid of a naked beauty.
You
mourn a maze, where heaven cries, a garth for he
who
wept. I stir you more, a tender sigh, found in love.
