Thursday, October 8, 2015

Love & Maze

We live it, deeply vexed, to thirst religion; or something gold,
to deign for love, or something bold. We venture drugs, and
broiled hash, to surpass woes. How to outsoar, a wealth of
horror, even to infer love? We can’t elude it, this thing called
life, as cordial as possums. Its wild a night, a tent for souls,
abusing reefer. We pant for rivers, an eight week run, and
lacking roots; but ever a love, to rescue dreams, to carry an
ocean; but some to perish, hand to heart, a scene from Sanford
and Son. A man’s aware, to shed a grudge, holding for dear
life; where a woman smiles, torn acutely, gripping his palm.
They cry a war, a subtle zeal, a zooming zest; and love is rich,
in high esteem, to seize a future. We die to see it, a burning
love, for giving hope. We scrape and grind—the deepest
foresight, to live as Sun Tzu. It’s never a pearl, and ever a tear,
a grand epitome; and what for love, to chase for winds, and
gamble for stars; but many breathe, an axiom bed, peering at
tomorrow; and many chisel, a vest of candor, and lost to love.
Its mind for heart, a faultless soul—gin and cranberries. 

The Sentiment

  The Sentiment    It tends to matter—each pursuing holy armor. It leans into a desire to feel pure, clean, sacred and such. I never underst...