Flit
and fly, my love, to soar the great outdoors, where
nature
intoxicates;
for I see a flower to garnish rain: my mind a
scribe,
carving into oak.
I
love her in thought, aloof to acquaintance, alike to
mental
soreness. So I imagine more, to personify pash, unto
a
tear,
where
a net found a stein, for a ripened vat.
She’s
a duvet, to soothe ghosts, fallen from myth. I see her
in
visions, to carry a rosette, awarded for graces.
I’m
found, to lose an object, counting infractions. So I
breathe
for
clarity, chiseling scenes,
deliberate
to pictures.
Butter’s
churning, where soreness intensifies, to draw a falcon.
What’s
the ambit of anguish: to tiptoe spikes, a brilliant smile,
to
part sadness.
Flit
and fly, my love, to soar the great outdoors, where
nature
intoxicates;
for pain turns wisdom, an intimate system, this
end
a
living mirror.
I
give less for absence, aloof to sing freely, ever in
development;
and owls are mating, where cats cringe, both
oblivious
to
jaguars. What have we taken: to mourn goodbyes, ever to
feel
innocence, long beyond atonement. I venture, drawn to
form,
ever formless, carving structure; and there to ponder,
to
soar a psyche, a woman knocking.
Never
could answer, an invisible chime, ever to value such
intimacy;
and
here
we are, a scale apart, hassling over fates. So skyfall
tears,
flood a soul, where remedy is patience; but ever a
flower
to
garnish rain, where a
heartbeat
screams
in wilderness.
