He
wonders for vagueness, an absent image, to plunge for
souls.
He’s there for unseen, for closure lonely, a tad bit
content.
There’s this thing, a gregarious charm, slipping
through
oiled palms. He lives an introvert, thinking to
speak,
to shun reversal. Tiers are building, where he
climbs,
to scold a mirror. What is such, to tease for chase,
a
diamond living? There’s a vacuum, to gulf a nature, to
rift
an image. He inks a canvas, a lot of crooked lines, to
mourn
consensus. He seems a wound, with deep cache, an
invisible
image. He dreams for lightness, to yearn for
heaviness,
a pouring paradox; for art is voice, where
minds
utter—a remarkable essence. He’s there to fly, to
die
through seasons, as alive as wasps; for life is segments,
a fleeing sky, to stand in stillness. He loves it for seconds,
a fleeing sky, to stand in stillness. He loves it for seconds,
to
grieve it for moments, to fathom but features. There’s a
fire,
a tender heart-cave, a sudden torch. He’s there for
breath,
to render a flame, to morph through dimensions.
Its
rain for art—an inner joy—to perish one more birth.
