I’m
vague, a bit opaque, to peer into glass hearts. We run
through
fields, nibbling apricots, shielded in madness.
It’s
ever forgotten, to love last year, to hear it laughing.
I’m
pen to sketch, even dynamite, clawing a mudslide;
and
so naïve, to court Sophia, trekking through France.
Its
axe to soul, prone for depth, to see her face. We
kneel
a shore, to drive for passion, a scarf as blanket. I
pose
a life, a world of us, if only a season. Love is sagic, a
temper
to cringe, fallin’ for love. We see it, to feel it, a
queasy
stomach. I topple, to bare a skeleton, to flood a
liver.
We channel so perfect, a mental muscle, a turn of madness.
I
love us forbidden, driven to matrimony, to tiptoe brains.
Oh
for lungs, to ponder for name, and nearly crucified. I feel
it
born, a forgotten love, to wrestle a mirror. We draw for marrow,
to
plummet veins, running through a jigsaw. Oh for glory, a
bleeding
nose, a mind aflame. We love it, plum to navel, and
hands
to heart. We dream it, a fire’s ache, to roam a nightmare.
I
love us more, a frantic puzzle, sawing for pieces. I’m sick and
sore,
a waist of hells, to grip for shoulders. We fall to cry,
wrapped
in
love, gnawing flesh. I’m born, to manage
her smile, tongue
to
ear. Its life, a tattooed ankle, to wiggle a toe. I long for legs,
barely
shorn, and arms with peach fuzz. We paint madness, a
perfect
affliction, headed for Knots.
