You’re
a drug; and we fawn, spawning laughter. Was it
prophecy,
to drip into a valve, something chimerical. It’s extra—
to
stir apologies, to hamper anger. We die a shadow, and live
a
night, to nectar passion. I love for Mars, stranded on Neptune,
to
scope for Jupiter. You filter tension, the sweetest touch, to
clutch
and suddenly cry. I kiss a palm, entangled dearly, to
play
platonic. We must for love, a feeling detached, as not to
judge.
Its fatidic, to pace a living-room, digging for an answer.
Its
rebellious love, and social love, framed in psychic love. I
sun
for shine, to crease a collar, headed for the banquet. We
picture
perfect, to tarry drunk, sipping a cup of coffee. They
love
us grinning, a group of mentors, skilled at critical thought.
It’s
something gray, where love trickles in, to sculpt an ideal.
You
pose for vicious, as calm as a leopard, as fierce as a mother.
I
measure for light, to chisel emotion, and there’s a want for
mawkish.
We search an image, a mural made grand, to wake up
love;
for life is more, ever a mirror, to fashion fireworks; and
love
is minced, a need for sutures, ever to spread wings.
