I
reigned in hell, to morph for water, a flaming gambit.
Mother
vanished, to see the doc, where church was traceless.
We
died a soul, a mystic gurney, trekking
trail
tracks. Life was grave, a fluid fuchsia,
a
fever claret. We webbed a vault, to voice
a
safe, piercing volume. Her eyes, burgundy
orange,
to sever souls. I died an inrush, to rise a mystic,
raving
near a creek. They plague a flame, to hinder holy,
heaving
hell. We often panic, to shed a castle, cleaving chaos.
It
ever was, to jog a thought, to morph a vessel; for he was,
a
fulgent flame, a fevered fraction. We tremble love, a tale of
trimmers,
ever for close. It’s less a tale, a tingle told, to trace
for
terror. I love her—untold, a whirlpool of trespasses. Its art
for
pain, a proper pressure, poking for prodding patience.
I
heard for death, a deadly deed, digging dirt dreary. It’s ever
love,
a livid lance, to live it boldly. I’m cold, a clement cave,
sick
for craving, pausing at a river. It’s more a concert, a flex
of
souls, swollen with pride. Oh for heart, a mystic altar,
a cryptic
fleece.
