I
love like spinning, to filter a moonflower, crawling for stepping to run.
The
heart is warm a furnace, to beat for slowly, to sketch a swan. Its miracle
spice,
to
dwell through arcs, electrified dearly. I spoke to you, an empty room, tugging
at
stars. We jarred turmoil, to crawl through as a daddy long leg. There’s for
huntsmans,
to pierce a concave, where pain is bending visions. I float through
winds,
to cast your name, a steady sea. Oh for gods a flower upon a sky, where
all
trickles through Light. I died an adolescent, to shiver my being, gripping
soils.
It’s a sickle to a root, a small miracle, to replant life…for anguish churns
joy,
where bliss is but a moment, captured on Polaroid. Its golden silk, to
struggle
metaphors, as harmless as newborns. I hear it loudly, to jot every line,
stressing
a memoir…for time is blurry, a line of dots, to stipple a picture…and
every
pixel, a tiny universe, for a recluse. I love like passion, a reformed pirate,
headed
to sea…for brooks are flowing, a cloud of roses…and flowers are up side
down,
to dangle from winds. What for this life…this feeling…to pierce for
darkness?
[…] and more for breath, to usher a swan, to nurse an image…for days
are
black, as rich as literature, to grin alone. I woke a ghost, to send for
spirits,
where
light’s elusive…and yes to dwell, a castle in a soul, a born algorithm…for
love
is spinning, to shelter an ache, a mountain to an ant…and thus crawling for
stepping
to run.
