I’m
sick for it, to auction breath, as mad as Hamilton. I love
it
in pink, and acting girly, two steps shy of anger. Its ups
and
downs, stabbing through traffic, hair ever in flow. We
brushed
a crease, as fine as grains, and parted turquoise
skies.
Here’s a plum, plus an apple, and a volatile pledge.
We
spin it grey, as free as caged birds, to monitor self. I love
it
in beige, to hear for ear bites, sipping Champagne. We color
mazes,
to tillage for hopes, stabbing a Rover. It’s Broadway,
and
arias, and a poet’s drumbeat; also for zeal, a quasi-fever,
to
wrestle all night. We hassle words, to tug and pull,
shifting
ballet. I strum a sentence, to thrum a feeling, chanting
Aum.
We tingle fire, to mingle joy, touched with sadness. It’s
ever
a life, for daily stress, to reach for kindness. Such is
waves,
and beta flames, stripping chains. We stir oxygen, to
filter
sorrow, scraping for an empire. I see it boldly, a world of
spots,
to connect a pattern. Its purple wines, and russet grapes,
to
dice strawberries. I feel it, and such a birth, to struggle
cursed.
It calls for grace, and faceless stars, to love come life
and
bars. I guard a fortress, as tacit as thieves, ear to the
pavement.
We love sighted, ever composed, to lose it on
Fridays.
It’s a challenge, to keep pace—a woman’s zest. I felt a
scar,
and swaddled a wound, for ten moons mourning. We drift
it
blue, to chisel blueprints, five miles to Vegas. I’m one
heartbeat,
to place a call, to hear it boldly.
