We’re
quilted a whisper, to reign in spirit, to live a vetted
novel.
I feel for twines, to trek through rivers, to thread a
beating
heart. Its radical faith, a seraphic charm, a stormy
opus.
I’ve graced a nib, your very pen, to swim your
journal.
I’m there, pulling tears, a soul’s therapy. There’s
a
parasol, for a sitting sage, to soar prestige. We float like
magic,
a walking phone, a gallery of prose. Oh your
soul,
as old as youth, as young as earth. I watch—a field
of
chi, to form an image; and there you stand, a skylight
air,
fretting a feature. We mingle, to hear it croon, the
vocals
of birds. I must atone, a daily prayer, to plead a
vision.
Hear for clouds, an anthem arc, to surge through
ears.
Oh for souls, a blanket fission, stirring for closure; and
what
for dolor, to pause and muse, bruised and witty; so
cherish
parts, the lark of lights, a sublime station; for life
is
gray, for transformation, to live a daydream. Oh for love,
to
mend a wound, an unphysical jewel. It’s more a future,
a brimming halo, a
bit pictureless; so live!
