Life
moves this way, to sway a soul, striving for perfection. It’s a different life,
fraught with webs, and bulbous eyes. A brow furrows, to mention contempt, where
a heart feels shame. We mourn it this way, afraid to jilt it this way. I
mentioned shame, a whirlpool of shame, torn through by shame. I live it, to
mold it, ever to knit for prose. I remember, ever to forget, lost to city
lights. We mingled harshly, to guzzle vats, to inhale madness. It drove a soul,
a fraught tryst, even a blueberry jaguar. We died wildly, to awaken with
bruises, to chat with strangers. We tore a rug, fond of futures, to struggle
for futures. Life was grand this way, to grog for heartaches. Laughs were sad,
and nobody channeled. Days were long, and no one inquired. Our smiles were
perfect, even a touch of spice—sprinkled with lemon. I loved it, to lose it, a
tad bit mad. Life would change, where brows would furrow, to mingle in
different circles; and still an outcast, ever a poet, exchanging soul for love.
I see it more, a cheerful soul, touched with sorrow; to feel it more, a tender
reed, living a verb. It’s all for action, the keel of love, found in sable
eyes. We chisel heart, ever an artform, avoiding darts. Life is mission, a
grandfather’s clock, to journal time. I’m lost in roses, chasing squirrels,
while feeding soul; but mind for gears, to vision such beauty, to ponder a
perfect portrait. Her prose is grace, a symbol of light, filled with such
stress and life. I’m airborne, to skip a roof, ever to dungeon into soils; and
there she stands, a product of rain, pouring through hail and snow. I
disappear, afraid to go further, as to summons midnight; but evermore, a
night-owl verse, soaring through curse and life.
