Oh
for conscience, to know for wrong, to sing for mercy.
I
hear a swan screaming, “Why not try, if just to see?”
We
mingled greyly, for big eyed love, a bit private; and
such
the rain, to fizzle souls, the mind of Plato; and
what
for him, even Socrates, cursed to hemlock. I speak
in
shades, and ever proud, a tad bit hurt. This is therapy,
to
write a Tear, to search a conscious. She loves
for
deeply, a touch of torn, traipsing infinity. I’m so
for
sorry, for a hosts of reasons, headed to confession.
Where
is life, but gems and eyes, digging for deeper? I
see
her walled, a pressured fane, born for slain. I try for
terms,
to hold a grudge, partly worn; but more a curse, a
spinning
rut, grogging woes. I hear it tipsy, to feel a
moment,
mourning softly; but core for joy, to beckon
Prima, to snap a
bowl. A swan smiles, a checkered rose,
wishing
for purple gardens. Is it hate, a bit of bane, a
feeling
for right? Its woodblock scars, an era of tattoos,
and
casket tears; but feel alive, spinning for grinning,
to
purchase fajitas; else for pain, and deep regrets, and
sullen
pages. I know for parts, a grieving puzzle, to live
the
margins; but breathe a flame, to cleanse for soul, ten
feet
above. It’s ever a vase, half full, to plant a flower;
and
life is love, a secret door, a seesaw of budding. 