There’s
a swan, to tiptoe a breeze, soaring through a pond.
We
channel beige, a warm chest, flushed with fever.
The
seals are dancing, to churn afloat, to search for gems.
I
drift, to purchase a priceless kef, where pay is thought.
We
love for heart, a certain flux, aswoon for lying still.
Lights
are wailing, an ocean’s trust, to channel the Maori.
We’re
brushless, to paint infinity, tipping boats for trance.
What’s
for soul, to scribble crystals, provoked through
Spirit?
Of greater love—hath no man—to give of self.
Your
flame is pearls, even a white stone, bearing a welded
name.
We chant a mini sacrifice, ever for vestibules, to
climb
through windows. You’re there, to melt through
caves,
glossing petroglyphs. More to awaken, from trekking
slumber,
a vault full of sky; for love is cherries, buried
deeply,
to fret the edible. Bend water, Love, sprinkled or
dunked,
to court new life; else for rites, to chisel a path,
breathing
Aum; but love a silent mirror, as vocal as
insights,
the image therein; for love is fusion, to hook
realms,
rooted near a reservoir.
