I
mourn to perish through memory a love intoxicated with
turmoil.
We flew partially winged with such fever. I
enfold
a petal to sprinkle your name believing not in
such
loudness. Our portrait painted in prickles an opalescent
nightmare.
It was so colorful to love a shopping spree of
tears.
I drift.
The
days of Caesar’s wife as refined as nunic silence…. I
imagine
armor and piano pains longing through fallin’
castles.
How to assuage absence, where missives groan—for
wellic
love? She wrote for nights alone, the fairest ambrosia,
where
mirror love proved futile. He galloped while doting,
thrusting
swords, boot high in trenches. He gave to give,
a
wound for love, to return the sweetest alchemy. I drift.
I
courted a fair maiden, famous in the arts of God, cloudy
unto
daymare. Emotion drives a sea of pirates, and I barely
flee
a ship. She circuits a soul, a night of souls, fallin’ where
arms
reach. It’s physics, even meta-amore, a
love locked in
sin.
We’re patient through vineyards, for love to sigh, a knee
to
kneel. With joy for rapture, a warm reply, “I’ve waited a
soul’s
length.” I drift.
