It’s
tranquil sadness, to touch a root, tugging and pulling. I’m
there,
to ponder friends, a vault of memories. We’re not to
see,
ever to see, as silent as rattlers. Thus, a feeling, as cold as
a.m.,
to love a friend. Something’s gray, a cavern of songs,
hushed
in the winds. So hurt is a tempest, a gamut of sorrows,
a
pith unborn. If a light, the gift of love, sodden with pressures.
I
alight the dark, fraught with darkness, as serene as shiny
particles.
Knit me together, where measures are real, an opus
of
forgiveness; for I pry not, ever to pry, whistling an anthem.
I
love you—to search for ambrosia, rubbing a sudden pang.
Are
we there, to tackle black art, found in a realm of ghosts? I
ask,
to conjure a signet, afraid to gallop a forest; and there we
are,
nibbling fruits, spray painting landmarks. It’s ever a
missile,
as tangible as reflection, where truths form misty
diagrams.
I love you—to hike a wilderness, to stand a shadow,
lost
in devotion. It was ever a dream, a sense of imbalance,
wrapped
in a whirlwind; and there you are, a tasted affection,
withdrawing
tenderness.
