We
feel it, an inner memoir, searching through eyes; and
more
wit love, ever a name, to drench a soul. I know for rivers,
to
dwell deeply, straddled to a heartbeat: something summer, a
touch
of tears, to riddle a kettle. The ball bounces, soul to soul,
to
fever a fane. (He forms illusion, to strike converse, to
trickle
truths.) I read a margin, where tears merged, a salty
taste.
Evolve design, to speak it not, where feelings curdle;
and
ever alive, a tad bit sour, stirring dimensions. A lyre simmers,
to
charm a mongoose, darting towards twilight. I love it more
for
peace, spinning for words, to dig for deeper. I serenade love,
to
feel for warmth, an inner chamber; and there he stands, mirror
to
mirror, a bit stubborn. I thought to know her, a childhood
friend,
to soar illusion. I felt to see her, a mere stranger, to floor
delusion.
We pass this way, forest affected, flipping a flute.
We
thought to conquer, an inner chorus, thwarted sorely. I love
it
like strings, a verse a day, to pull at veils. Was it us, to flicker
a
flame, a world of yogis? or Was it light, to fountain a storm,
featured
in waves? I’m want to tell it, a Grecian guilt, to tour a soul.
