We
plant for seeds, with much to care, endemic of rain. It’s dearly chromatic,
where kith is kingdom, seeping through pores. He knew for suns, through
pregnant moons, a tad bit scarred.
She panicked his life, to shift realities,
where the two first crept. Another said for little, as complaisant as inertia,
to vex fate. We nod through minutia, a one word answer, where something rests.
It’s somewhat christic, unless for reason, a sacral thirst for knowledge; else
for sore, a bit dogmatic, to ignore for grays.
He
wrote agendas, to route a course, a rumor come sundown; for chaos—struck the
static, a realm epistemic; where fever soared, a chance response, as tropic as
warm seasons. We chisel an image, a blueprint upon napkins, to live for
scholars; but what for self, an authentic breeze, to pull from various
threads—to formulate a philosophy;
for many ventured, through thorns to webs,
clawing through chapters. Its true a dream, a psyche to a chapel, as bold as
trick dice; where thought is endless, a pinch awake, as countless as symbols;
for too adrift, this vessel called life, in need of binoculars.
She felt disdain, a bit for classism,
carrying a broken veil. He thought for breathless, a signal come dismay, to see
her hiding. They wrestled looks, where fantasy blotted—to morph contention. She
sought for monsters, to find for calm, to challenge a mirror; where less
perception, for more illusion, to reticent confusion. They laugh in private,
where years wrought a funnel, knitting with hemp.
