From
silence to waves, for such infraction, a spiritual dome.
I
reckon a heartbeat, a sunflower gaze, a torn inspiration.
It’s
ever sublime, to charge and rev, steeped in poetry. She
reads
for lines, to shadow wisdom, to soar through valleys.
We
love the songbird, singing with melody, to purge a soul.
The
gamut is love, a tempest of stars, to endue swans. I’m
fairly
knit, to swim for seams, whistling for nightingales.
We
live it for calm, a wealth of anguish, proud to escape;
but
ever-to, a welkin storm, the closer we get; but more for
closeness,
through sodden bones, a reckless hope. I sit to
watch,
a vest of feelings, to defang life; but more a sword,
to
sever souls, akin to found art. I hear for grains, to
pressure
thoughts, a signet for a scar. Its misty clear, a foggy
haze,
a must to quell; but more a fang, to measure hurt, a
stature
uncanny. We live for joy, the throes of love, to
search
for succor; but arms open, a silent chance, to watch for
artifice;
for more to life, a set for twins, pulling against for
waves;
but more caress, to feel for earth, a squirrel on a leaf.
