Oh
to flit upon clouds, and ever to languish, filled with
glory.
I love more for love, to crochet mercy, reading
for
both good and evil. Oh the magnitude, to topple
a
dungeon, wailing unto freedom; or rather there,
scribing
prophecy, to chisel stone plates. She stands a
night,
watching for shadows, and inking cryptics; but
oh
for justice, for fission heart, to rapture a scroll. We
want
for truth, and mystic stars, faint at the gates. Oh
to
love more, confused deeply, weeping through ponds.
How
convey—the deepest wisdom; and partial to kindness?
If
for rain we flee, plucking splinters, afraid to question
pain;
but something instructs, a world of pressure,
communing
with God. It’s us to build a garden, and ever
in
our image. Oh for more mercy, an inward yearning, to
tiptoe
for holy. We chant and pray, filled with measure,
collapsing
at a heart-stool. I love more for love, a tint of
passion,
an uncanny energy; but ever more, a must define,
to
push towards fire.
Oh
to love, an inmost love, and riding thunder.
