Are
we immortal, love; to live somewhere gone? It’s ever
a
sacred kiss, a radiant frown, a need to lace the
wilderness.
Such temper, both chase and wild, a spool of
colors.
She’s angel-bound, to tarry storms, a sight for ups
and
downs. We paint rivers, and nestle dust, forever
symbolic.
Oh for color, hermetic shades, a feyic ambrosia.
It’s
iridescent, even thoughts afoul, dearly enmeshed.
We
terrorize, lost for months, a fantastic fantasy. Is
Juliette
still, to wrench a soul, pierced with iron? Indeed
the
nights, so long a grave, a fatidic fever. We dance for
ballads,
found to words, carving suns. Is it mawkish, to
ever
love, an irenic soul? Such for grist, a woman wild, for
sipping
gin. Such semblance, laced and eager, a stole for
time.
It’s ever wrapped, to chime a bell, staring at skylights.
We’re
tears for love, a tad bit different, mourning grays;
for
lightning struck, to cleanse a soul, an egg beneath a
bed.
We’re somewhere immortal, a drum-set of circuits.
We
love for life, to rupture passions, gripping energy.
