You’re
a blue daisy, even a dahlia, or a cosmo pink. I sing
to
morning glory, a beautiful star, even a bird of paradise.
You
scream gardenias, a lotus of flowers, and more a sculpture
of
grace. You’re animated, and forever calm, a mixture of
emotions.
Love is freedom, a type of graffiti, a wide screen
cinema.
This is so robotic, where I venture to break lose
chains
of creativity. It’s a brief art electrified by you a
woman
distinguished for love. Are you human? I ask in
jest
to paint opera with words while drifting through a
state
of limbo. I’m pottery, love; so mold pieces of self
into
a magnum opus. Such is akin to woodwork
where an
object
comes to life fabricated in prose; and more for this
life
of exotic wings and sugar apple dreams nibbling breadfruit.
I
love less for anguish and more for celebration where said angst
motivates
a dynasty. You’re miracle fruit to heal a colony
where
salmonberry smiles extinguish pain. Its light a style
a
furnished heart and alpine aster. I admire more and filter more
to
pluck begonias to stir a sullen soul. You’re tone speaks a
soundless
temple, a rhythm seemingly lightfast to rain. I hear
for
the blood of lilies and symbol for the grace of daisies
swimming
through a heart-chakra. It’s more for amazing, a
gentle
pose, a moon of tulips; and it’s ever you’re soul.
