I
sweat to swelter to feel your grief. I felt for it, a shelter
of
darkness, a shivering phantom. If only to speak it, a
terrified
fantast, to swivet your name. I panic to feel
you,
ever for color, to whisper silence. Ours is opaque,
to
whisk upon spirit, and never for gamble; and his eyes,
tipsy
to see it, filled with passion. Is it vatic, a sudden
knowledge,
to smartly grow? I’m daymare knots, photic
spurts,
attempting to run; but it comes, growing wildly,
and
speaking urges. I surge through smaze, to morph
through
prose, a rose for an attic. We weaved it, a pair of
wraiths,
steady at a helm. I lost you in a thought, ever to
walk
a vista, where particles appeared. I can’t explain it,
looking
for cheerful, pulled by a new coming. We sew a
vat,
to fill with liquor, a tad bit ludic. Such afar, and
letting
go, where spirits roam. I’m melic, for ontic,
peering
into physics; thus, for buoyant, to grackle a smile,
to
lose a thought; and more to welcome, for mental sight,
a
lithic scroll.
