Its
confusion this gurney, a small death, where most are nonchalant; but what to
feel,
aside for chaos, to love but features. We charm elves, a world of particles,
poking
at ferrets. We walk for miles, while sitting still, floating through abyss.
It
wrenches a heart, to yearn for sights, to envy a close friend. We fall gripping
crystals,
imbuing
trinkets, while casting shadows. There’s for ghosts, attached to thoughts,
to
sift through chaff. We’re delicate—for indelicate, a bit sensitive; but depth
for
wisdom,
to chime through fey, to recapture a sudden moment. It’s called satori, a
second
between inches, to glow aflame. I feel for sadness, a passive unseen, where
many
take comfort. We live it greyly, a vatic cry, to probe a becoming woman;
for
now is then, where at is was, and never is liquid. We saw it pinkly, that for ideals,
painted
in blackdamps. Its beige this way, adept to crumble, ever to float away;
where
tension—is thought, a form of misperception; wherefore, we watch the word
all, stalking at lights; and know for
truth, it’s rarely all, where
innocence feigns greyly.
It’s
more a partnership, where hell is infused, for ownership a myth; but nonetheless,
love
is blossoms, an infinite shade, parted at seas; where ideals are cyan, a golden
daffodil,
striped in purples. So fashion prose, to feature renowned, a bit existential;
and
more to physics, to reach for meta, to
glow through trance; for its heart a gurney,
ever
for birth, carried from there to now. We love like mental, a piano soft,
to step for
center stage. So live
it here, to speak for and, to court for maybes.
