There’s
a feature, flaming through hearts, a dark warmth,
filled
with color.
She
drifts—to infuse a type of blues; and smiles form, to
burn
and savor.
I
love her, to grip for tentacles, as visible as humans. We
venture
new moons, kindly for love, and frustrated. I met
her
come birth, to see her come womb, to dance forgotten.
Such
for cycles, to utter, “I’ve been here.”
So
young to marry flames, and reappear. I heard for
tornados,
to sit spaceless, and dine timeless; and still for
here,
as faceless as fey, forever a face. I feel her speaking,
to
weave a soul, in Stacy Adams; and less the fear,
enflamed
with curiosity. Would they, shifting to vibration,
and
kayaking?
The
arts are brimming with abstract reality, to feign an
illusion.
Is that a palm, and nailed sorely, captured in music?
She
wants for freedom, afraid of kites, and floating freely. I
love
her, to beat this heart, a golden treble; and more a jar,
a
welkin life-force, a bit elusive. It never was, to play pretend,
to
morph delusion. Its volts and chi, a running fey, looming
brightly.
We mingle tears, to wrestle sleep, a bit unseen; and
hell
follows, an old beginning, to council crystals; and there’s
for
bass, a booming blend, increasing temperature.
