Where
hearts leap, found in cyclones, a brilliant storm; and there’s a tear, a
jubilant tear, to feature virtue; where all is passion, a spear to soul,
absorbed in bass. We see a squall, to form near thunder, where tomorrow is spikes
and spokes; so we fawn, to strike a note, for something gentle to ensue. A seat
is up, urine has splattered, and patience has shortened; so we clean, promise,
and follow through. It’s our turn, a set of steaks, potatoes and onions. It’s
medium-rare, a difficult task, to check every three minutes; but this is love.
Such for skies, a dozen roses, plus a trinket made of silver. We love it in
ivory, a top and bottom, with a green heart. Love is more often sacred, a
saving anchor, as agile as rabbits. We revel in passion, to atone for errors,
striving towards perfection. Here’s an artsy pendant, an item of kitsch, a
moment set to blaze. There’s such zest, in glossy eyes, a second to unwind. We
snuggle, to draw closer, reviewing our daily tasks. Television is peace, both
laughter and personality, filled with déjàvu. Reading is strewn with silence, a
small notepad, and a favorite snack. “I’ll get it, love; what would you like to
drink?” This is life, fully ablaze, two kids and a puppy; and what for time, to
chisel time, to call a babysitter. There it stands (love), running amuck,
alongside imagination. It’s forever this love, a touch of glee, as cloudless as
a lucent moon.
