Oh
this yoke, made of marble, a mask as an event. Such myrrh, to minister a soul,
a cryptic music; and oh the nerve, to remain hidden, a mass of possibilities—a
future made futile. I paint you, to love you, an invisible face. Oh a line—so
thin, a need for peace, to face a queen. I’m dancing rain, a storm to come, to
build a castle. So many abstracts, to sail a seed, a minor consumption—to morph
through winds; and there you breathe, a sour taste, needled to a soul, a
flaming tent. I picture castles, the width of pleasure, a poison sweet. Such
power, a price paid, dying through life, and living through prose. I’m found
for purpose, to chisel rhythm, signs and symbols. More for skies, falling to
pits, barely resuscitated. It’s a puma caveless, a genius made blank, or
moreover, a mother’s soul crumbled. I want for your love, even your life, to
rupture through raptures. More for insights, a crescent volt, to venture a soul;
and you’re gleaming, at such a distance, so far beyond reach. It’s ever for
glints, to placate hearts, where more becomes a fever. Oh we perish, to witness
unseen, as fertile as passion. I need for love, to cipher through love, to
avert an oiled thought. Be free, of freedom to touch—a mourning soul; else, a
screeching cry, a falling heart. I’m close to feel, to feel and touch,
screaming over cymbals. You awake, to blow a kiss, where I strive to stand. How
to craft a vision, to crawl through tunnels, staring at a sightless nimbus? I
grow weary, to seek motion, both zest and zeal.
