I
speak for conflict, where limn is seen, a tad bit confused. I grog and flit,
to
sin and smile, fraught with contrition. We walk for fens, to drink for
marsh,
trekking through smaze. I’m so alive, a spark of wine, confused
and
cautious. I know for life, to give for breath, afraid of love; for
something
dies, where something lives, the dirge of love. I hear you
cough,
a bit distressed, seasoned with love; and what for death, a cradle
born,
and sworn to love. I hate it died, and must it should, to conquer
woes.
I’m sanguine, love; and torn asunder, fetching hopes. A psyche is
sad,
to carry tears, a box of angst; but more to flows, to drift the winds,
enlove
with psalms. I feel for dusty, a cosmic sorrow, to fret over love.
Oh
for pneuma, a Paraclete felt, to wrap a posy. Its Zion love, an opus
rose,
sick and psychotic. It weighs for heavy, a must to shake, perceived
as
dangerous. Blaze the shophar (Ram’s
horn), and raise the tunic, a thetic
infusion;
for nights are grim, the grim of nights, to carve a trestle. I wish
you
well, despite the death, a weft where souls wept; and more today, to
wax
a vizard (mask), a sword from Shakespeare. I love the sights, to grow
and
churn, to feel for clear; but more to come, a glint for flints, a special
task.
It’s torn for virtue, to trust a lamb, colored in disguise; and less for
tears,
a realm of ghosts, to trust despite caution.
