To
live this excursion bound to beige wings,
for
motion tender a parting art said;
she
dies this night, bound to love a light scar;
where
eyes roam a facet bare a canvas;
we
empty ashes to follow passion,
strewn
in particles to rise in harvest.
Oh
for regret to caution said harvest
crooked
for heart a fallen art for wings;
we
perish for bold to cleave to passion
spent
with wine close a dark sin, enough said;
for
more a channel whelmed in fey-canvas,
where
artists muse for ripples from scar to scar.
We
trot to where oak carries a said scar;
it’s
hard to read for private a harvest,
to
live in paints as roots for a canvas;
she
sighs for life bolted to fated wings,
where
we expect perfection, enough said;
so
heart sits in mud—to yearn for passion.
She
scrapes a sky to trickle said passion,
ever
lost to search torn to paint a scar;
it’s
slightly broken to ponder for said,
spinning
through forest to reap a harvest;
where
owls mourn for light ever for her wings;
so
we sit before brush sore a canvas.
We
disappear to sickle said canvas;
where
tears fall flesh to strengthen a passion;
eyes
become torch raving for splintered wings,
as
soul writhes a gentle breeze for a scar;
bark
morphs into flames to torture harvest;
for
spirit ushers forth for something said.
It
lives in a voice to ponder for said,
as
eagles symbol for sighted canvas;
more
for workers to nurse roots for harvest,
where
love blossoms to grid a born passion;
even
to cut weeds to caress a scar,
for
she lies in ruins, to salvage wings.
She
parts for soul to rise for a passion,
twisting
through forest to nurture a scar,
where
rescue is found in hellish born wings.
