A
candle flickers your heart, filled with runes, even bones of fey.
I
shadow a thought, to walk inclinations, to feature a clarinet.
We
banter softly, in silken prose, a rose for turmoil. It’s a
purple
night, a fleet of silver stars, for a spectacle of the cosmos.
I
feign for joy, a bit off key, afflicted with screams. You seek
to
solace, a stormy dimension, a voice to pull confession. It’s a
notch
intimate, as cozy as finches, as boisterous as lions. I
speak
of demons, a torn simile, staring at the bride of woes.
You
flex for wise, to sketch for footprints, where I felt alone.
Faith
is rich, a spiral of doves, a pair of burgundy chains. I
point
to fevers, a world of pills, and children affected. You
style—lost
for cautious, to speak of breakthroughs. A smile
musters,
a nexus bends, we float a tender leaf. I shun for
promise,
to court for lies, where all is stern. You cuff a tear,
to
read a heart, as forward as Rakes. We fail to fathom, to
grasp
for straws, as forward as newborns. The moon is
clouded,
the darkness behind, to whisper a soft verse. We curse
for
laughs, a bit deliberate, to jest for sullen. I pull for feathers,
a
mile through hearts, to build for wings. We live as chapels,
a
gravid lot, for morning confession. You utter for knowledge,
The Unquiet Mind, staring for
response. I squirm to voice, to
point
to nuances, a child from the ghetto; moreover—the scars,
to
thresh a soul, as cultic as pain. The madness stops, to point
to
hopeless, afraid to say it; where hands are held, to gesture
homes,
a night of vulnerability.
