Its
mauve pie, strawberry
roses,
and burgundy ceilings.
If
only a moment, cemented
in
faith, sealed in revelation.
We
knit, witted in disquietness, to keep for silence; and we
saw
it, featured in sullen fens, aboard a cryptic bus. He
found
it, an ancient coin, a script on both sides. It’s deep a
mystery,
an inward book, shelved in souls. Oh for life,
covered
in colors, for desperate to paint. She knew for love,
a
rainbow heart, infused with showers; to breakfast dawn,
steeped
in channels, for noon prayer. We fashion worth, to
sculpt
futures, to war forces; where many perish, for
jealous
cries, imbued with darkness; but what for life,
alone
for battle, to crumble to laugher; thus a family, to
soar
a furnace, to speak a soul. He knew for war, where love
preached,
for part control; for a spirit changed, cloaked in
rays,
to misuse force. We see it grows, a budding
knowledge,
to shepherd children. Oh for palms, to reach for
toes,
and steal a nose. He felt for light, to sketch a flame,
where
a lotus bloomed; but only for time, to bridge a chasm,
seven
miles a root. It’s more a piece—of symbol and sign;
for
a kiln is hidden, buried in souls, a need to forage.
