We
love for this love, a prison called paradise, even a touchdown.
We
scream for death, the increment of orgasms, to forfeit reason.
We
beg this ache, to fingertip a womb, to love a nymph; where rain
is
grand, an unlocked kernel, to unravel emotions. We struggle
upstream,
for tender a climax, as fulgent as sunbeams. Her aura—
a
spectacle of women, to feature a concert; where a snapshot—
triggers
tears, to swoosh to love. We live in gray, to sculpt a paradox,
even
a conduit of pressures. We would for normal, to censure
normal,
a pristine laugh. Such is ballads, for ripples of souls,
sipping
holy water. Oh to baptize, to seal a soul, for syrup’s nectar.
She
dances elixir, a window of pain, confound to known; where
life
is keyboards, even a thunderstorm. We sing a maestro, to
marble
tablets, to grip for patience. She smiles a nightmare, worthy
of
praise, to telegraph God. In for triumph, to cup a tear, a thirst
immortal;
for magic drips, through a mystic gaze, to dine in
Westwood.
She’s Aphrodite, even Athena, running barefoot. We
clip
for nails, to manicure love, a lagoon of petals. Oh for earth, an
unearthly
woman, for jealous a star; for hold for dice, to comfort
Cleopatra,
to shower Cupid.
