We
live it, a spell of love, to tint for aggravation. You’re an
heirloom,
a coach bag, the rarest gem. I play it low, to hold
a
style, ever a child. We tickle boldly, to touch for public, a
pair
of dahlias. Was it us, to pigeon clouds, and climb a
stairwell?
I ask, somewhat shy, an appetite for rain. There’s
letters,
to confess love, shredded near a fireplace. I pushed
a
button, to fawn this love, rejected sorely. We met—to spill
coffee,
laughing our reign. We paint glory, to
splatter walls,
as
ancient as odors. I drift, and
treasure love, to nibble a
loquat.
I’m merely a child, to peel a lemon, and share a slice.
Its
morning dew, and portrait tacks, sweeping a thick carpet.
We
died this way, to venture heaven, a decade of love. I’m
pensive,
walking through lakes, to pass a vest. You picture
so
perfect, a palatial shrine; and such for anger, to toss a
plum,
screaming passion. We live it, a soul of spells, whet
for
summer; and here’s a kadupul, a one night bloom, to
whisper
a texture. We’re aglow, a rainbow of stars, sorting
through
pressures. How to unyoke, reading Rousseau, to
varnish
a cave? I love for it, an hourglass of dove, as torrent
as
time. The moon is crystal; a heart is
warm, and autumn
has
passed. Such aroma, and oaken roots, pitching hopes.
