I
receive you, to receive self, to tiptoe myth. I perish, filled
with
tears, to wrestle a gremlin. It’s late night art, for
primer
paints, plus acrylics. I love you like first glance, to
drift
your ambit. We picture like kittens, as cute as
puppies,
a tad bit vicious; but oh to gain favor, to blend
plums,
featured in membranes. We faint to reappear,
beating
through caves, a treble heart. Our world is magic,
for
music tremors, a rising light. Was it myth, eight
lines
in, as naïve as babies. We freely fire, a rapid page,
to
scribble a masterpiece. I’m left for love, akin to
jaguars,
to drizzle for misfire. We conquer gray, a nocturne
gem,
an inner concert. It’s Mozart, to drift Beethoven,
to
live for Schuman. It’s tough, to feel your measure, to
dribble
your soul. I scribe a fleece, to think a mural,
haunted
by graffiti. Oh for pressure, to witness never,
entwined
in fabric. It’s ever a seam, a knitted temperature,
to
live America. We chisel rivers, to break a dam, tearing
through
a cosmos. Oh for fever, a rifting Blake, a testy
Coleridge.
It’s ever us, to nettle a war, as private as
mafias.
It’s ever life, a bit unreal, to capture a psyche.
