He
thought for soul,
a
deep warmth, cringing
uncertainty;
but more she
came,
a fevered ghost,
whelmed
in tai chi.
Why
for help, to aid a stranger, so far apart? It’s love for souls,
to
witness fire, storming through winters. He’s indebted—to
a
cryptic force, a heart beating upward; and every song, a mystic
gong,
permeating dreams; and none to touch, shooting chi, the
deepest
trance. She values art, to rupture pain, as breezy as
northern
winds. He braces life, somewhat sullen, for it appears;
and
less to climb, a distant meeting, to play pretend; or rather—
to
speak in codes, of gnosis fens. She lives a swami, a felt
kenotic,
skilled in taekwondo. He falls to drift, to trickle
through
shades, chained through links; and why for help, a
picture
yonder, a castle of prose. Was love calling, something
platonic,
to chisel a friendship? They verse through fey, torn
for
captured, to wrestle with forces. A select few—stream a
forest,
cooing to chi; and what for spirit, as loud as asthma,
piercing
loyalties. He sent to give, a vest of diamonds, a vault
of
rhinestones. She channels—a spool of flame, stripping fevers;
and
less a stranger, through center eyes, buried in a reservoir.
