Liguria
eyes, for Italy’s soul, and misunderstood. I thought for Germany, and Dutch
eyebrows, to camp in France. Its butterfly smiles, and ladybug hugs, a face of
living. We whirl a station, to swoon a heartthrob, the zest of waves. It’s more
for subtle, a cannon love, for canon rites. We myth a legacy, and cringe a
heartbeat, to ponder the ifs. I
disappear, where energy rises, to portrait beauty. We die so often, and live so
often, probing Africa; and never a thought, but more an instinct, the friction
of thoughts. I wanted love, and sickly for deep, to realize justice. I wrote to
Gertrude, and hassled Mechtild, to pause at Genevieve; and such the grief, to
ponder Porete, to drift through Norwich; and art to Kempe, to study Catherine,
flooding a mystic river. I love you—our pleasure, for grayish minds; and float
for Judah, a sewn elation, to drift to Spain; for life is moments, wrapped in
Greece, to perish the richest soils; but time is failing, for mystic tribes, to
drift through Egypt; and medieval gems, to live in fey, to type a
platform. I soon return, to filter
the ifs, to know for never; for such
is travesty, a series of eyes, and passing judgment; for this is life, to look
for down, a giraffe for closets; and all the more, to cause for guilt, as sick
as pneumonia. I think the Congo, to see
for tragic, a tale of cultures; and burgundy eyes, to wail for truth, to
conjure Ethiopia. It’s Smith to see a
puzzle, and Traci to bend a mystic, standing through Hayes; and all for
legends, to see us through, to pretend against thoughts; where Jamaica is love,
for blowing circles, to feel Nigeria; for days are love, to drift a name, found
through a status quo.
