He
uttered not—a cosmic soul, and feeling lost. They met
for
inward, something random, to scream, “This feeling!”
A
woman watched, pitching rhinestones, and sore aflame.
He
asked a name—for a shaman glare, kicking gravel.
She waved a wind, a tropic sprinkle, a
mirror of foibles.
His muse gripped leaves, shadowed in
agonies. They
met for inward, and garnet wine, to
whisper, “Insanity.”
He
felt for soul, the deepest flaw, to meet for inward.
They
skied for psyches, and coffin dreams, to vanish life.
We love more, torn for sated,
streaming mishaps.
We look for inward, to see for
growth, sporting a
mystic wand. He awoke a fever, to
freshet a
heartbeat, afloat for carpet. Its
inmost love, to
perish twice, the wings of fancy. He
loved for
mercy, and her for glory, soaring
through
valleys. How to fathom, an inward
dream, walking
through vineyards! She manifested,
for earth so
petit, a shaman’s notepad. We
lightly see, to live
a spell, and hearts to kneel. The
knell has rung,
a woman cries, and rises from
inward.
