It’s
the small things: a gentle hug, a moment kitsch, even a
piano
kiss. I feel you, and somewhat afraid, to conjure
thoughts;
so be for kind, even a fairytale, a paradise grand.
We
live it veiled, to never know, for spellbound. I love it
like
roses, to breathe a petal, to ensoul self. We dearly
unmask,
an opalescent storm, to meet our eyes. I start to
panic,
a reaching hand, to speak for dreamlike. It’s more
surreal,
a starlit mind, trekking through seaquakes. Oh for
relics
and rhinestones, as effulgent as joy. I fall and stir
through
religious tears, dearly enflamed. We spin to
stargaze,
as gravid as sin; and gripping wires. Oh to
irrigate—a
beating psyche, a bit imperfect; and oh for death,
as
voiceless as life, a drumming kef. I ponder precious, as
perfect
as youth, a pistol packing peach. Indeed he shivers,
a
bit untamed, pushing through silence; for such to perish,
as
proud as patience, peering priceless praise. So more to
life,
a segment of joy, a petite value; else a giant, to move
apace,
as melodic as, “I love you.”
