The how
of your love streams into the what of
my
soul; and the what of your how screams
unto
wherefore; for moving therefrom to stumble unto
whereat; where tomorrow is but a myth,
for fever
through eyes.
The passion of your wants sing to the core of my
needs;
for never our wants to exhaust our needs
where passions morph for wants to perish for
birth—more celestial needs. We scribble through
spheres of passions, replacing wants for needs, a
city of souls bruised for apex.
The frame
of your goals live an inner life
yearning
where we swim; such for goals to frame a sylvan
home, nesting tents—a fireplace; for
touch to
touch to frame through goals a
world of passions
for warming wants to cuddle flaming needs.
