We
wore chaplets, lost for sin, grinning through sin. Such
a miracle,
to favor good, to pass a cache. It
meant more,
to
soar in spirit, to mourn surreal; and still, a light was dim,
to
chisel through traffic. We spent to laud, composing verse,
bent
on prose. It was more a wound, shoving a carcass, to
slam
a gong. Such was art, atop a buzz, thrumming through
futures;
and there’s a mural, ever a life, to sickle a past. We
knew
for dungeons, to witness death, both grit and grind;
and
more to choke, a stick of grass, a nocturne soul.
Women
swore, the softest touch, spinning through woes.
We
sang to gray, to soar for stellar, as opposed to death; but
love
was torn, plus, unshorn, the fairest of beauties; where
everything
shimmered, a blazing sun, a tulip’s bosom. We
died
to live, and still asearch, kneeling near a porch. Such
was
life, to trek a meadow, to kiss a palm. More for hurt, a
dreamy
scar, a mental feud. We grew—to outgrow, starry
eyed
sheep. It’s a torn adventure, a gentle disaster, swept into
a
memory.
