We
love like madmen, nearly psychotic, to trek a track’s
trail.
Eyelashes speak memories, a stranger for love, to
know
for more. Winter was chestnuts, a touch of irony, a
sullen
motif. We cried paradox, to love for contrast, to
abscond
a dungeon. It was such caprice, a ton of spasms,
to
scream through mirrors. Such for craven, as bold as
death,
a gothic love. Nails as black as soot. Minds to
swarm
through smaze. We lived it, afraid to fawn, feeling
a
latent love. Now armchair thoughts, black coffee—a
carpet’s
pressure. I trail passion, to feel a crook, ever my
life.
Something tore, to wreck a gut, the color of puce.
I
chase, to traipse a vista, ever this love; to see for soul, a
grieving
ankh, a flaming chi. We must a thimble, else to
leak,
to flood a vase. So many graves—a tomb our names—
afloat
a dying plea. Our souls, fallin’ amore, ever our
minds.
We shift for hearts, a gilted love, buried in passion.
Something
tore, to strip a closet—a hurricane love. We
die
so gently, to love for storm, ever a naked scar.
