Oh
for trestles to topple liquor upon fractured egos.
Oh
for nightfall to nestle a pillow for love lies near.
Such
is rhapsody to feel for fever a standing dream.
Such
are livers throbbing from panic a grave death.
He lived a nonplus life, for a
miracle woman, where
bees
buzzed to sting a soul. He dared to know for pain, as
falling
fantast peering into a tender caress. They knew for
bliss
a kiss for gardens, to rescue splendor, to cringe an
inner
person. Oh for symbols to wound a smile, where
mental
lakes poured through lagoon eyes.
They died in fractions for grinning
joys, bound for
hell’s
abyss. Such indelible pain, to wrestle fractions of
a
would be disaster. Their line so thin, to suffocate loss,
as
rich as birthday wishes. Oh for horseback, to race through
meadows
as free as swaying leaves. They wrought for gifts,
a
mantra imbued with powers, racing equations.
Tales give for little
justice, an outright tear,
shrouded in soul-prints.
Love is miracles.
