I
give it not my life, this melancholic joy, to ever give it my
life.
I’m somewhere here, to kayak to self, a need for self.
Love
is rhapsodic, a fallin’ epiphany, mourning love. I felt
you
in a tear, fully ecstatic, and running a manic trail. I
followed
to cry, tearing through a forest, an infant’s smile.
It
was ever a cadence, to move fluids, to ponder eyes. I take
a
cliff, and pass a prayer, where light taps, and falls upon
souls.
But a vision’s dim, to reckon complications, a
mirror’s
cracked. I’m somewhere split, found in motion,
ever
to catch rain. How was it our pain, a drawer of poetry,
as
pure as first grade? We pruned a flower, a wilted petal,
bathing
in aromas. How would life, plague a nightingale, to
pierce
a fog of myrrh? I’m somewhere low, to wrestle a
project,
again a youngster with his mother. It’s ever a trumpet,
a
favored sickness, to combat cymbals. Once so simple, a
mischief
nine year old. Who would see it, a fleet of cranes,
a
mental concave?
