I
love you like it’s over, or the last religion, soaring a swan
song.
I feel you deeper than depth, singing at the heart’s
altar.
We mingle in beige, for so many years, thumbing
through
books. I peel a plum, to welcome purple, a subtle
secret.
You speak for prophecy, to wash the venom, and
imagine
eagles. I love you like it’s over, or the last religion,
soaring
a swan song. Was it music, a sudden thump, or
spirit
speaking. Its urban phones, striking through the
suburbs,
to touch a precious swan. We paint in teal, to
specialize
gray, a portrait invisible. I feel
you deeper
than
depth, kneeling at the heart’s altar. We carpet prose,
to
knit a garden, and crochet a kingdom. We’re there,
buried
in seams, staring at a stencil. I reach for missiles,
to
wreck the sadness, where passion erupts. You want for
essence,
the core’s fruit, to scribble a masterpiece.
I love
you
like it’s over, or the last religion, soaring a swan song.
Feel
for stage-lights, an actor’s dream, captured in ink; so
write
a whisper, a well of walls, walking with wails.
