Love
for love, and not for love, to venture love. We embody
love,
ever through woods, dwelling at cabinets—for love.
The
heart is love, a sky portrait, nestling love. Such is riches,
a
nature for love, to swell a mystic. We flip a
coin,
and nurture love, quasi-adrift. We feel for birth, a
marble
love, as flexible as gymnasts. We’re there, ever for
closer,
filled with verve. The roof is lightning, a salient
picture,
feeding a stonefish; and he’s bare with love, to
varnish
love, aware—the breach of love. How to love, a loveless
love,
to sprinkle love? I ask, fully afloat, the cadge of love; and
such
caprice, and fulgent woes, to hamper love. She calls for
love,
to burgeon love, a guileless love. Something hapless a scar
to
ruin love; and something grand a seal to rapture love. We
feel
it, a felt action, to crochet love. We hear it, a warm reply, to
reel
for love. I run, to challenge for love, a latent skill; for love
is
art, and love is prose, to placate pain. We sin love, and ever
aloof,
to feign as tyros; and how for love, an image of love,
and
speeding towards love; for love is light, and love is love.
