More
the cultic, to live this life, asearch for a heartland. There’s folk
for
art, cleansing engrams, skipping for a state of clear. One is
spellbound,
to flood a river, a warming heart. How for notion, a
bit
unborn, to swim through manuscripts? They felt a legend, to
love
like futures, a friend of mania. One is for light, despite for
detriments,
to live disgruntle; where one finds solace, to climb for
rants,
a grace unseen. Such is eloquence, to speak a novel, as fluid as
liquid
jam. More the cultic, a fleet of
ships, to scrub come holy;
else
for war, a pirate’s soul, tossed for overboard; where one is
inward,
a mystic charm, a garb of rules; but who can fathom, the
rank
of stars, to count for constellations. One is lofty, aflight the
journey,
soaring with diamond eyes; for one is sullen, to see for pain,
to
wrestle internally; but what for boots, to break for guts, a
woman
cursed for beauty. They live it knit, a voice come one, to ski a
sun.
There’s apple pie, for stalwart souls, that master audits. There’s
life
aglow, through summer snow, to capture an unknown. Some are
born,
to stream a planet, alive come culture; where some fall, a
delicate
path, to fracture a mind.
I’m
reminded of passions, to want for God, to treasure come pain.
It’s
more a phantom, a bit elusive, and easily slanted. We cry the winds,
to
fuse through hells, a snail for a seashore; but want is grand, a
screaming
ark, seasoned through storms; and what becomes, a fist of
fire,
as keen as blades? Its constant flames, for grilling souls, to push
past
a clock. It’s all reverse, another life, a century in B.C. I saw for
rain,
a pear afloat, to gnaw through airs. I sip to think, and think to
blink,
centered for lagoons. Its mystic rills, for rampant chills, affected
deeply;
and what for pain, to her hurt, where patience shattered? It’s
quite the same,
despite the larks, a fraction of self.
