I’ve
been waiting, for a moment grand, to suture wounds.
It’s
all with purpose, to feed a swan, and mingle with artists.
We
fly so low, afraid of clouds, to trickle through God. I
love
you like freedom, to fashion joy, to hear it beat. Is
that
a heart, a precious swan, gliding with geese? I ask, and
ever
to fret, to give for more. I speak no names, but many
mourn,
if only that moment. We tour souls,
to flap wings,
pregnant
through woes; and such joy, to color falsely,
demanding
respect. I venture left, to center rightly, sipping
upon
chi. We gave with blinders, and partly slaved, wrestling
yearly.
Watch for repeats, and channel skies, somewhere the
gut;
and there it is, to float a soul, a sullen nib. I sighed to
feel
it, a harsh rebuke, to scorn my part. It’s ever a light,
a
lady of grit, a spacial power. Indeed, count for triumphs,
despite
for darkness; and grip for lightning, a Buddhist heart.
We know much a future, where pressure
dwells, to sculpt
a
statue. Life is ballad this way, a grand event, to curtain a
portrait;
but ever a bulb, where reason chatters, speaking for
fumes;
and know for love, to grapple fruits, a swamic wave.
