It
means nothing, for jasper dreams, cut through topaz.
You’re
still for brick, to muse a song, a mystic
background.
I speak to color, and aqua pains, and
sunstone
thoughts. It would never fly, to pine a dove,
as
jaded as snowfalls; but ever a want, to know for
passion,
and torn appeal.
It’s
dearly unfair, to ask for granite, and posit
snowflakes.
I feel for it, to scream for it, smelting gold.
You
heard for cringe, to live it—prose, a ghost for a
heartbeat.
We’re pruning fevers, and esoteric, proud
to
resist. It’s vision for breath, a senator’s daughter, to
tiptoe
transgression.
I’m
a tatted storm, as humble as Labradors, as beige as
mystic.
You pose for aster, a bit deceptive, and eager
for
gems. Was it Adonai—to strip a soul,
to pause for
holy?
or more charisma—to unlock vaults, and
bury
an old faith? I disappear, to trek through thoughts,
drifting
through a maze.
