It’s
an orchestra,
blaring
fire, to string a harp;
and
you perish
glory,
to crochet hurt, a
grand
utopia. Oh for God, to
nurse
a
feeling,
and drizzle mental. I
love
you, to grid panic, and
flame
dual.
It’s ever this night, to
cascade—a
seaquake.
It’s
ever this tear, to wash a
soul.
I
love you, to tug a star, to raise a lamp. It’s ever us, a light
to
flicker, and nearly paranoid. This love, such a struggle,
to
wing all odds. I’m door to hope, knocking for kicking,
to
parish eyes. I love for church, a young woman, casting
rites.
It’s back to mass, to partake love, to paint a canvas.
We
die so gray, to play for parts, and dearly young. What
for
need, a pot of tea, and brown liquor. We kiss a vineyard,
to
nibble apples, slicing a piece of love. I’m lost for you,
to
see
you
running, to hear you crying; for life a staircase, even
a
maze, something psychotic. I drift, ever a temper, and
only
for love. It was more a tryst, to flow return, gripping
and
pulling passion. I laugh a tear, to part a sea, to hold a
sun.
We’re standing sober, to toast a glass, singing paradise.
I
found a moment, a printed voice, and sore sublime. It’s
ever
a harp, a flaming orchestra, to perish violins. I love
you
flying, and so exotic, to kiss for now and later. We move
in
silk, to twilight love, and timing for breath.
