Such
fetching beauty, a thing called joy, akin to nothingness.
We
carve it—in Wedgwood, for argent cries. I love it, to see
it,
speaking symbols; but I often brood, a silent haunt, to
combat
forces; and there it churns, a beating soul, for light
and
darkness. At times—dulcet, to ripple a mind; and ever a
split,
to glamour a nightmare. Oh for rapture, and sullen
paws,
to paint it gray. I thought to eat, instead to fast, a heart
full
of drums; and what of love, a gaze of gems, as fluid as
oceans.
Oh for smitten, an alien self, skipping towards Mars.
I
loved her—unknown, even a passing glance; and more to
find
her, nonchalant, and blinking. I wish to jest, to see it live,
as
bizarre as yes and no; and ever for yes, the grandeur of
love;
and ever for more, alone in a cabinet. I part with senses,
and
ever to ask: “Who screwed him up?”
It’s less a
nightmare,
and more a catastrophe, walking through eyes. Oh
for
glory, a mixture of woes, to witness Siena. It’s inside out,
even
a lack thereof, a deficit of light. I feel it—a rake, to
garner
waves; and much to blight, barely to heal, staring at breath.
