Burgundy
eyes, and pearl moons, my love;
a
thought for taboo nights, hung-over.
We’re
fresco arms, ever to reach, peering
at
insanity. Our words, a rose-garden:
our
hearts, a Shunga exhibit. I love you,
as
pure as humanity, wrapped in Ukiyoe.
Once
so innocent, even neophytes; and
now
so dark, to beckon for light; and I
ever
knew, to court for danger, a human’s
motif.
Our drums, ever our instincts, a
tinge
of whimsical. You’re an architect,
sculpting
mansions, where bones mourn;
for
rhythm shifts, where such is glamour,
even
skeptic love.
Mnemonic
symbols, my love; even a
nervous
ache, my love. I swim for spring,
through
elysian eyes, to touch a statuesque
queen.
You infuse it, this thing, where all
is
purple, and all is green. Such newness,
my
love; to shift for waves. I’m exhausted,
to
drift through zephyrs, to ponder your
voice.
You amaze, as vicious as pure, a
riddle
to tiptoe a maze. Is it business, my
love?
I must to fathom, a Grecian goddess,
to whisper, “I need
you.”
