I’m
an orchestra, ever alone, to crochet a thought—
asearch
a utopia.
It’s
a masquerade, even a seaquake, this life; but more
for
grace, to feel a wind, and stumble thoughts.
I’m
a lamp, even a sunray, fraught with gloom; but art
for
rain, a candid canvas, colored perfectly.
There’s
a girl, a fluid stone, to live a paradox. I sit for
blank,
to sift a soul, slightly altered. I feel a name, a
subtle
kiss, to release rain. I wander there, a vapid
space,
playing hopscotch. She sits a swing, to nurture
soul,
as sublime as hello. I feel her in a portrait, for
heart
to scream, jotting notes. I see her more,
scraping
thoughts, deep in meditation. Its paradise, to
come
with rain, musing childhood.
I
drift for scar, to rapture myth, singing
twilights; and
here
we are, a sanded table, plucking stems.
Years
morph, to live discreetly, a honeysweet pain. She
rants
and raves, to settle peace, bound to perception. I
invite
a stranger, to pail for reason, holding an amulet.
It’s
gripped, to mold sanity, trickling a big picture.
So
many eyes, to sculpt rain, pleading cases. We’re at a
rally,
wailing words, lost for a paragraph. I slow for
down,
to grip a pen, a face of flight. It’s more a flame,
to
storm a soul, captured at an orange light.
I
pause a nightmare, tapping kismet, even a violin. She
moves
a pit, to strike a fire, a choir of souls. It’s a
sullen joy, palm to palm, singing for
grace.
