I
want for depth, to further expound, a marquise grave.
Its
tender a nightmare, a ghostly axis, a flower wilting.
I
felt her breathe, to sculpt a lion, staring at flames.
We
fall for parts, a fabled dream, a penchant thought.
It’s
more for air, a string for harps, a screaming symbol.
I
cry heart, for steady want, to flicker for shame. Such
is
texture, a taboo sigh, a wound to fester. I picture for
waves,
steep a pound, grieving cobwebs. She’s core
an
opus, a tinge of plight, a weaving hydrant. It’s sore
for
mind, a mnemonic vice, a fane in turmoil. I churn
to
flee, a winsome love, flipping a boundless sea. We
felt
for turns, to stipple signs, tipping into jungles. I
thought
for love, an untold scar, as deathless as nature.
Its
murky skies, muddy graves, a vision turned misty.
I’m
clouded, an upsurge of woes, beating upon a timbal.
She
moves a suture, ever for panic, to veil a kiss. I run
a circle, spinning through eons, to charm for
wilderness.
