The
days are blurred, a bit opaque, to count for pash. It’s there,
a
somber ache, for sullen a joy. Its khaki blues, knitted V-Necks,
a
season of dementia; for a force lives, a touch of vagueness, to
crochet
illusion. Its magenta, for jungle thoughts, a worded
waterfall.
She came, such a sunflower, an aqua daffodil. We
wrestled
touch, a treble heart, vying for dominion. Oh for calming
liquids,
fattened cigars, a wealth of escapes; for to guzzle,
whisking
through music, to see her camouflaged. It was ever ivory,
for
turquoise brown, surging psyches. We paint in maize, a
rainbow
tulip, a mix of emotions. The days are blurred, a bit
opaque,
to count for pash. There came a term, for mango love, as
balanced
as life. We felt for cashmere, a mental ballroom, filled
with
tap-dancing. Oh for spacial design, a touch of physics,
tugging
for pulling cords; for we perish lightly, a pinkish wound,
a
purple bandage. How to answer, for can’t see, abed a dream;
but
oh so real, inked in pedagogy, a tinted plum; but the days are
blurred,
a bit opaque, to count for pash. We feel for blue, a
jasper
heart, for jasmine streams.
