There’s
a song for rain, a track for freedom, and more a
set
of virtues. I feel you mad, sorting through woes,
to
roast a thought. I love you with want, ever to fly,
counting
wings. There we are, afloat a sphere, staring
at
cherubims. How does it feel, ever bad, a rebel and
star?
Something’s cruel, where poets touch, and
retreat
gracefully. I’m reading lines, and getting lost,
but
ever found. It’s your words, to form a diamond, as
grave
as life. You till a soul, through dusty rivers, as
full
as emptiness. I’m whet for nouns, and stern for
verbs,
gripping adjectives; and there’s a soul, as fierce
as
love, to grapple with adulthood. I infuse a dream,
to
melt a vision, swift for trances. Time adjusts
futures,
where hell must pause, to witness resilience.
There’s
a song for rain, a runic spell, albeit, tired I am.
I
love you through facts, even linage, to search a russet
sky;
for moons bleed, a sun darkens, where we grog
souls.
I’m challenged this way, eager for dryness,
gazing
at shadows of hearts. There we are, scooping
clumps
of grass, debating the arts of wisdom. I totter
with
life, to silence a defunct pain, as candid as
possible.
There’s a sallow tulip, to speak a wave, to
probe
a theologian. I want for show, to hear for words,
to
cringe as you ponder darkness; for a gothic stream,
plagues
a soul, a cauldron of spells and butterflies. (I
find—a
need for love, ever a phoenix.) Are you there: to
touch
a rose and perish—ever to breathe? Our carpet—
is
a board of chess, even a piccolo, or an academic tassel.
We’re
in costumes, a grand performance, where eyes
water;
but I confess, I’ve lived your life, where days are
wisdom,
where egos are challenged. Colors are intense,
life
is aesthetics, and every column speaks a slant; for
reality—scrapes
a pavement, a soiree of troubles. We
judge,
to live an ideal, where concepts are punctured.
It’s
more a theme, to clog a mind, to compare with
others;
but live—to let live, where one takes onus of
life;
for a fiat follows: “I shall not perish.” This is rain,
a
spoken quality, a color scheme. I love you art-bound,
found
in yoga, debating contrast. (Whisper for lines,
channel
for tones, and study forms.) It’s ever for
texture,
a calm conscience, avoiding idols; for rain
pulls,
a genre of graces, opaque to shallow depth. So
probe,
draped in pastels, charged with Spirit; for shape
eludes, where zeal
demands, a calm infusion.
