Lean
for sanity, a chosen few, an unsung dynasty. I feel
you
like myth, a fission of parts, scattered to a seesaw.
So
it’s up for downs, to sail a tempest, enlove with essence.
Love
is potent, a type of snowball, even welkin havoc.
I
feel you like words, a heartbeat sermon, a surgeon’s scribe.
We
heart for church-bells, a thief of sins, grounded in a
young
swan. We vet for fireflies, a jar of sunrays, and a
basin
of tears. I’m abstract, and born for concrete, to trek a
village.
It’s saffron tulips, to trigger a sun-clap, and thunder
hells.
You’ve transformed—that much for evidence, to float
a
cloud. It’s ever alchemic, an augury of souls, the rune of
silence.
So count for billows, a subtle vibration, a present
universe.
It’s magic to live, as pensive as love, to whisper
dreams.
I tremble your name, ever to be written, and never
to
perish. Art is photic, a sheer splendor, a tad bit cultic. So
live
it, to lean for sanity, afire a daydream. I know for gravid,
to
touch for touchless, a precious swan. It’s mystic ink, and
flaming
ember, a seashore of diamonds. I love it for souls, a
texture ghostly, as
valiant as a young dove.
