My
tender love, filled with seraph eyes, ever to harness glory. I’m close to
trauma, for such is love, to cancel out wisdom. Such melody, a dulcet voice, to
enchant a mystic. You’re a symphony in darkness, a pulse to vibrate, a rapture
of appetites. I’m found in such art, but ever formless, a texture unseen. You
pause motion, an incantation, followed by sudden outbursts. I’m cloudy for
love, flushed with brine and blood, to stumble through speech. You incite
butterflies, a mind stunned, where ghosts trek freely. I’m haunted softly, to
brush mane, fraught with volts. So many rivets, to fasten a soul, a rope of
coils. A heart washes in beauty, adrift nautic waves, to scribe a missive.
You’re a sculptress, knotted with fever, a mystic fable. I’m a whetstone, to
sharpen knives, to meld with love.
My
puppeteer, a puppet loves, penchant—and fraught with mantras. You’re a motif,
buried in a psyche, ever to arouse my passions; for love is pearls, bedded with
gems, the grandest orchestra. So many antiques, engraved in one soul, a woman
seldom to love. I’m a vacant stare, even rhythm and blues, captured by a flute.
You imprint stars, tug upon clouds, to gesture with such grace. I’m like
carpet, ever silent, ever unseen; for rarely to look, to spill a drink, to
trickle ash. I’m mortified, gazing a locket of love, where love called my name.
Such a koan, crocheted in gold, and sewn in silver. There you live, a winsome
vase, crawling through my spirit. We lock palms, whelmed by ghosts, a circuit
enflamed. I whisper love, ever to reap love, ripe for another session of love.
