The
depth of a hug from soul to warmth. Its zest, zeal, and
zing;
but
I’m
located beige stirring through in-betweens as a lost
tawny.
Such
is language centered in psychology where color
features
behavioral patterns. I try for laughs as grave as
x-humans
cringing one’s presence. I’m not for lost, but
rather
found in sophic legacies, musing upon aesthetics.
What
of a child searching the vast in-between surrounded
by
indiscretion? The harvest is ambivalence, a sense of
nonchalance,
and an air of confidence: but only if.
I
watched a smiling dove soar through human traffic to
find
solace in three parts.
This
for astute, color is but atmosphere, founded upon a
need
for classification.
In
moving forward, we pause for that perceived as glamour,
beauty,
and spark. We’re apt for motion, a gust of wind to
usher
a furnace. We perish to live, to reap compassion,
reaching
through a neighbor’s eyes. Such is relevance as
retrieved
in subtle gestures featured in gray moons.
I
mourn for issue a nation of division stirring through a
torchless
forest. I preach it not where a child hungers for a
motive
to buttress such confusion. It’s known for unfair a
dying
voice where we incorporate such madness.
I
move forward to witness a woman’s elocution; to stand
heart
to soul with a soaring mystic. We fire so gently on the
fringe of explosion,
tiptoeing through a small rapture.
