Behold
a mystic, somewhat aflame, fallin’ to a vision.
I
never met her, to feel her, two meals apart. We
built
like dice, a bowl of souls, and never to see it.
Oh
for mercy, quasi-cursed, to drench a heart. I love
it—dripped
in beige, the scent of curls. Oh for
digress,
and downcast, blessing a swan; and plus a
nun,
the rarest beauty, ever a fuse.
We
live it, to feel
it,
and cryptic wombs. I can’t for lost, a
priest’s
part, and dearly ‘demned. Oh for tombs, to
channel
vaults, a tad bit dead. I fly to life, a scarlet
wound,
to bleed a palm. It’s murk a light, the wiles
of
idle, to trickle a name.
Is
it limbic, a feyic
cortex,
somewhere aflame? I bring it back, a dove in
black,
and spinning hats. We feel it, a touch of
naughty,
freaky at a red light. I laugh a pearl, racing
fast,
to pause at fate.
What
for ethos, the pain of
years,
a struggle shy? I ask, a bit for fun, for life is rain.
We
see it, to hear it, the softest whisper; and oh for
winds,
and bending water, gripped in flame. It’s ever
a course, a felt
remorse, to pet a horse.
