More
for city lights, rattled in liquor, ever to surface. Its
antique
diamonds, wooden bikes, and kites afloat. Indeed,
it’s
a nightcap, and thunder dreams, threading moments.
We’re
enwrapped, sailing yachts, for make-believe. I get
tired,
drained for feelings, shifted softly. Nights are colored,
breaking
pencils, afraid of ink. It’s an hourglass, haunting
mirrors,
grieving time. Something baroque, to alter
reality,
one mug shy. I must for breath, nearly cloaked,
to
pierce for fate. Have you heard, flames are soaring,
where
souls are flying? I evoke for more, a valley of spirits,
trekking
a vineyard. Its oaken values, tender vines, and
steel
for meaning. You’re aglow, in a dark attic, courting
fireflies.
I tip a door, to climb a ladder, ever to peek. It’s
amazing,
an attic rainbow, a Van Gogh portrait. I’m
need
for words, to foreknow silence, a pigeon as a night-sky.
You
pause with fright, to smile ablaze, reading Rousseau.
I
ask with haste, to feel for circuits, drifting long-ago.
Its
subtle anguish, a trench of joy, to share in wounds. I’m
close for love, a Sunday prayer, wrapped in
ecstasy.
