Its
dark-green moons, and burgundy suns, to long for what
ifs. I’m born this
way, to pet an iguana, forever wild. The
tides
churn, spinning tornados, and scratching chambered
souls.
I flee, to return, pointing at a mirrored image. There’s
sorrow
there, and rooted anguish, at a sea turtle’s pace.
I
conjure an avatar, surfing through Twitter,
reading
quotes
and sayings. I pause in psychology, to struggle a
psych,
sketching affections. So many faces, staring at woes,
where
eyes reach for love. It’s earnest this way, to live a
mystery,
too brave to feel; but this is myth, where souls
water,
to fertile a garden. Its a-cappella waves, pom-pom
smiles,
and baroque clothing. It’s ever to hide, chanting a
chorus,
to feel a concerto. We’re gone this way, lost in
activities,
singing a duet. Let us pause, ever an encore, to
fool
a passion. I’d died to see it, a loving grace, fraught
with
altruism. So I dare, fallen for short, to scorn an ideal;
and
still, a fugue is blaring, a nocturne dove. It’s more this
way,
a lingering motif, a need to aspire. So more for waves,
to spin through
operas, to sculpt an opus.
