There’s
a choir, to channel through love, to multiply kismet.
I
touched an amulet, to follow a vein, for coupled visions.
We
paint softly, a honeysweet ankh, fully discreet; and
no-one
hears, for minds to see—a riddle cloaked in silk. Its
mystic
winds, to capture chimes, reaching for twilight.
What
for love, a silent heart, pulling and tugging wrists. I
tone
for light, to kiss a palm, for tears to flirt. We love it
gray,
to string a soul, imprinted with pash. Earth has vanished,
creeping
pearl eyes, a voice of fears. We picture perfect,
panting
love, and proudly painting pictures. Life for streams,
to
flinch with anger, as wild as paradox. I’m grown—and
tripping,
snatching Rum; and skies are falling, to witness
nonchalance. We court a
fever, to drip in sweat, fully aglow.
It
was never this chill, and ever this rill, to panic Te Amo.
I’m
Chevy to soul, and Rover to heart, racing home; and
such
a temper, to shatter mirrors, mourning images. We
died
a youth, a dying child, screaming for breath; and thus
for
cold, a blanket of woes, peering at nightfall. I strum a
nerve,
to feature love, akin to folklore. If only more, to
swim
the marsh, falling gently. We patch and pull, growling
fiercely,
nursing gin; and it’s back for traffic, a broken beat,
to
cut a glance.
