I’m
not for rich, ever on chase, a passion needed. I tap a pedal,
to
lean back, striking through the ten east. Life is painted, and
we
defy fate, to love a purple moon. I’m all illusion, to mix
reality,
a garden of symbols. Was it furs, and diamond rings, a
hunt
for October? I long love, ever a sheriff, a poet’s beat. I
spin
and whirl, to stir a heart, steady for a fever. Is it love, a
thought
for music, and mystic madness? We move, screaming
and
yelling, to fall apart; but more to pause, a young mare, and
dying.
I’m starry-eyed, and dripping ink, to mold for love. Its
uncanny,
to share—a woman’s detest; and much for loss, a
gentle
touch, a motion glare. We nibble tar, deeply scarred, to
stumble
afar. I ought for try, a sudden pain, leaking dust. It’s
more
our life, to juggle grays, as candid as new birth; but ever
this
wound, to dial a tone, to suture scars. I’m waiting, to strike
a
nerve, and pour October. I must for want, a ship that’s
wrecked,
and staring at a lighthouse. We blend so pure, to altar
November,
and spark a match. I’m haunted for it, to sprout for
wings,
a passion needed.
