I’m
sad for low, to travel caves, to tread the writing; for crooked lines
speak
of death, and fainted lines speak of life. Its petroglyphs—our
story,
as torrid as sexy silk. I watched for words, where few spoke fey,
for
matter and soul. There’s a melee, singing from towers, to shower
a
bride. I love for stargazing, a royal cobweb; and what to catch, the
fairest
queen, an opus of splendor. We trek a grave, to vet a fantast,
alive
a swan; and once for grown, a privy life, fraught with chaos; and
more
the rain, to ponder professors, to know she wept. We love like
ghosts,
whet for eager, to sail a ship. I’m upstream, awaiting an email,
afraid
to venture; and oh for gravid, and sore afire, to play the poodle.
Its
cultic rites, and photic rings, to tremble sunshine; and echo a
dream,
a silent fantasy, an office of tears. I’m subtle a mind, a rhythm
sparse,
to spare an ego; and more unknown, a fragile glance, a physic
charm.
We graph unrest, ever for elsewhere, to muse forbidden; and
tore
for slain, a naked scarecrow, drifting a tempo; for every measure,
the
pressure of life, a meter indiscreet. I feel for cadence, to flutter a
pulse,
to ponder a signet; and tears for ripples, the fairest beauty, as
grand
as basic pillars. I never a sight, for such as culture, to chant the graces.
