I’m
silent, to shift through shadows, searching for archetypes.
They
live in psyches, even sonic waves, to dance a symbol.
I
cry wilderness, to carve for trees, needling vines; and there,
somewhere
afar, lives a mystic. She listens, to wean a star, to
jab
an eagle. We wrestle, torn for thoughts, climbing
tension.
Every word—a mansion, trickling contempt; but not
for
soul, but rather, a past made future. I’m lost for names,
tugged
afar, pulling at graves. She often smiles, to hear a
whisper,
refined dearly; but rain tickles, to spark a flame, to
kayak
a tear. I must for earth, found aflight, kneading tension.
She
pierces thoughts, for more detached, stretching waves.
Our
world is angst, a superego, ever to function vaguely. She
visits
nightly, a touch of hurt, to twist through storms. I
smoke
a cigar, swayed to moons, to capture a caption.
Something
mingles, as gray as pure, tampering with chimes.
She
appears, ever in waves, to drift away. Moods change,
puzzles
mold, a phone shifts. I feel for motion, to shape for
heart,
where she appears. It’s all a vibration, a mystic hand, to
touch
a soul. I pause, to struggle fair, found in an aftershock.
