She’s
cloaked, to fuse a soul. I sprinkle stardust, to
form a contour. She peers deeply,
and shadowed dearly.
We spin it numb, a friend of liquor.
I cry, “Compass,”
to furnace a temple. We laugh
through rain, unbound
sickly. Such is nightfall, a
tornado’s love. We’re
strangers, ever to tug, to shun a
storm. I listen, the
fairest beauty, a grackle’s high.
There’s a flagon, screaming
names, to verse ‘til queen. Chess is
life, to move a castle,
ever a gambit. I love her like
healthcare, to feel façade.
We wrestle pain, a heart to ache. (Art
is mystic, a cryptic
style,
unto seaquakes.)
I
cringe—ever a smile, to touch for sorrow. I feel it hurts, to love
a
soul, unto twilight; but ever a verse, to grip for moons, unto
folklore.
We till this way, ever cloud-born, to cater to love. Is it
more,
an inner gut, pushing an opus? I ask—looking backwards,
to
drift through years. I swoon, to feel a voice, found in lyrics.
Love
is grey, a touchless face, racing to faceless.
It’s more a dream, an hour of kef,
streaming through magic.
I hear it, speeding windmills, as
gravid as pressure. It’s
ever hectic, a small inlet, water
for a mystic.
