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.