Do
I deserve it, a taste of hell, for loving her more? Is it death by honor,
to
claim a sterling, the last days of lions? I fret and disappear, filled with
spirit,
a heart to burn. Was it us for shopping sprees, and rich foods,
and
trinket jewelry. It’s now for groves, and mental mazes, staring at
beauty.
Is she growing, to perish softly, a young woman? Are the boys
crazy,
adrift with angst, to touch for love? and what is it, eternal hate, to
scrape
the gods, to pledge to darkness? I laugh gently, accustomed to war,
to
pause for yesteryear. It’s a glass of wine, plus horderves, to puff
cigars.
It’s deep in studies, to wrestle a voice, to know for glory. I
hated
hurt, to grow for wild, stationed in limbo; but more the Asians,
and
more the Whites, to soar the Africans. Is it love, bent in reverse, to
hurt
for truths? I see for days, an apparition, scratching a palm. We
paint
for secrets, to chant for closure, afraid of mirrors; but look within,
to
see it skate, to ollie a river. We carry pain, the grains of joy, afraid
to
see. It’s more for perfect, and silent charms, to be admired; but life
is
gems, and plus the sorrow, debating positions. It’s not to hide, to
feign
the lights, to hope he doesn’t ask. I watch for termites, a small
destruction,
to tear a psyche. We spent for waves, to love for weeks, a
desert
at the ocean; and more the grays, to live it fiction, afraid of
questions;
for it crumbles softly, a tour for lying, and crying in a den.
The
lions laugh, to see us morn, wailing in silence; but more to love,
a
myth confession, to tell a story; for a swan—is watching, to mimic
styles,
a child for futures. It’s not to take, but rather to mold, a gimmick
to
a squirrel.
