What
for life, ever to be motion, to dream
your eyes. I love
you,
brimming brightly, unborn with pride. We met in
fiction,
framed on film, and forward an error. I love for
music,
quasi-manic, a subtle fluctuation. It’s nuanced, a
nectar
rich, to draw your portrait. So its finger paints, and
heated
passions, to kiss a zephyr. I’m want for sanity, but
never
insane, and dearly mad. I love you,
brimming
brightly,
unborn with pride. It was more
Picasso, to
fashion
a crush, to sculpt a goddess. I must for pause, and
unspoken
laws, as fierce as brawls; but ever a dream, to
tint
a castle, as mature as butterflies. We fluff and dance,
to
lance for terror, as thirsty as wolves. Forever I drift, to
slip
into a fairytale, nestling a symbol. I’m less to hear it,
and
more for action, gripping and grogging fate.
We meet
in
visions, ever to speak, as romantic as Don Quixote. I
charm
a viper, as naïve as rabbits, to perish a slow death.
I’m
born again—smiling, as drunk as a parrot in a vat. We
love
it, and ever so much, to fall thrumming feathers. I
cried
to hear it, ever a new love, piercing my thoughts and
dreams.
