I
felt despair, an air of trauma, bleeding through baptism.
She
spoke for kindly, riddled with holes, plus a cultic ring.
I’m
wrung dry, bathing in creeks, to chant the Jordan;
and
there’s a dove, as neural as frontal lobes. We merged
for
war, a flux of art, to steal a psyche. Oh for mortals,
a
blooming lot, steeped in cultic lives. It’s more a soul, a
crescent
of roots, to watch’em curving. I could of saw it,
a
focus grim, and grinning at a fantast. They speak for
mad,
to repeat Jung, a grinning idol; but there’s a grotto,
a
fey eclipse, a damp trail; and hell in motion, a
jealous
thorn, plaguing fireballs. Oh for oceans, to drift for
gray,
a comet of fears.
We
were to laugh, as mad as
common
sense, an insane axis. I must confess, it comes
twofold,
a mirror in a soul. Life is joy, and pain is life,
racing
to pump breaks. It’s ever airborne, a gift for souls,
shrouded
in fancies; for rarely free, and scarcely seen, but
ever
felt. Oh for potions, to wrestle sobriety, a heartfelt
smile.
I’m more to balance, the lore of angst, drenched in
holy
practices; and oh a fever, an oracle’s dreams, as manic
as
an arc. I drift.
We think it pure, as if precise,
where tension ensues.
I’m
green this way, flicking rhinestones, invoking ghosts.
Something
holy, where something follows, something impish.
We
trekked lagoons, kindled wood, a bit bedazzled; and less
for
gods, where many arrived, infusing yogis. She saw for
station,
as quiet as feathers, probing a crystal. We speak as
strangers,
lost to ritual, familiar with a few; and oh for waves,
and
something crisis, where purity was held. I fathom not,
found
in silence, a neat collapse. It’s ever contagious, to grip
a
chalice, as tangible as feelings; and heart to gold, nursing a
cauldron,
a bit blindfolded; for life is fey, a starlit journey.
