He’s
ever rough, for jagged
edges,
and topaz grays. “How
to
speak—to a ridged world,
and
haunted dearly?” I ask,
to
tear for silence, gliding to
a
glasshouse.
It’s
a noble nite, nearly vexed, a raw force. I thought for ontic,
a
bit afloat, and barely born. How to harp it, a stormy rain,
blaring
Bach; and oh for light, a cryptic music, to utter names;
and
there’s a swan, an opus swan, to strum a sky. I spilt for
tea,
a multi task, to timbal a thought. Its flutes and lutes—to
serenade
pressure, streaming through a kettle; and it was swift
a
beat, thrumming through membranes, to court a thimble. I
spoke
in jest, a heavy feat, where eyes watered. We watch for
it,
and some die for it, to nurture emotion. Oh for lonely, a
spotless
man, dining in a cave; and oh for pearls, a sullen soul,
thrumming
through a forest.
It’s
an opus soul—to heal a soul! We wrangle life, a touch of
angst,
to mold a family. It’s a must for right, to never mulct, a
bit
off key. We’re close to rain, to blur for lines, aloof to
seasons.
Oh to jota, and blare a fugue, a
touch of mesto. I try
to
pause, a tad unfree, as seismic as love; and vent and yell, to
laugh
and tell, warding off hell.
