I
cried to lose her, to color coffins, wings and feathers. She
was
moonlit, a terrible sorrow, to lose a thousand winks.
We
wailed, “Torture,” lost for frenzy, courting madness.
Such
a web, a sleepless kef, to swoon for dolor. I trek a
trail,
to mold an oath, torn with tats. In-heart for rain, to
soar
a death, surely outwitted. Such charisma, to slant a smile,
to
render peace. Nights are jasper, where days are jasmine,
ignited
sorely. I comfort an ego, enlove with visions, to
comfort
solace. As for tears, I’m prone to fly, a festive for
costumes.
We
spoke a dream, flattered for love, to sketch an absent kiss.
I
was lost for words, to muse another, found in sable eyes.
Love
was calm, a Sufi’s soul, mocking advance; but fortune
spoke,
a feral wound, tethered to a smile. I was wounds for
years,
to art a web, as serene as prose. Time was cruel, to
trek
for sulfur, clad in embarrassment. I was sightless, even
lost,
a struggle to find self.
Such
trauma—for insight, a psychic rune, even a drumming
bone.
Pictures are magnets, to float what ifs, but
life spells
confusion.
We strum familiar, to love for comfort, infused by
smiles;
where something grey, tickles a soul, to compliment
Sade.
We ever love, to live it brave, where a touch is magnetic.
If
not for rain, a heavy storm, buried in her arms. I love her
more,
a captive heart, breathing from love.
