Such
to trust love, a young lamb, a perfect breath, where
all
is royal, fraught with pleasures, to crave a fountain. I
thought
to love, a knowledge sore, a spotless sorrow. She
gave
fire, to boil water, a guru’s wisdom. I’m gracious
for
love, a speckled image, a nimbus scar, while streams
perform,
a fantast fever. There she stands, a glorious fane,
slightly
manic. What degrees, a silent vox, as vatic as
Elijah.
I felt to love, a welkin star, deeply marred. She
cried
purple, where life paused, a room filled with sorrow.
I
neared to love, to feel a storm, gravid with melancholy.
I
hear it, a vat swooshing, where glasses are dripping
liquor.
Something to fathom, saddened laughter, to grog
a
ghost. We hide, plucking a trefoil, a diner of grays. I see
it,
a stranded sorrow, longing to trust love. How was it, a
crimson
moon, a rising saint. I’m flushed to feel, a soul
of
silence, digging portraits, to let it live. Something grand,
to
polish rain, where drops impassion pain.
