If
we must, less we die, I proffer love. Such miracle, to cleave
for
empty, as full as pregnancy; and oh for rain, a tad bit
awkward,
to fawn for love; and still for love, to die and fawn,
ten
tiers below. I love from sight, and digging deeper, and
finally
there; so love is grand, a need for depth, tipsy off
love.
I thought to want her, a bit unqualified, pushing for
miracles;
so more a star, filled with reach, and chastising eyes.
I
died a youth, to scratch for nerves, to abate pash. It’s more
a
slave, to abscond a heart, and pleading return; or rather a
nightmare,
a tiny daughter, a heart of splinters. I fault it not,
spinning
to sit, sipping tequila. The years have vanished, and
not
from thoughts, staring at one gesture. Oh for life, an
ardent
joy, to elicit calm. I couldn’t to type, as vile as sin,
pleading
for a psyche; and if we must, unless we die, I proffer
love.
Oh the hate, to yearn for death, a facet of my psyche;
and
dear our God, a genteel muse, to loathe my guts. I flee
and
fly, stripping winds, to neck with fire. The life of slaves,
a
maestro’s heart, and lunging forth. I love it rising, a neural
ecstasy,
a starry lamp.
