Oh
for beloved, to offer a caveat, that time is but cruel; for
we
love, and oh we love, an enigma in time. She walks
gently,
as surreal as rivers, an angel of winds. She’s a
saintly
sin; oh but a few words, a caption in Vogue.
I
touch
ambition, a sage in time, to vow but ever this love.
We
passion immortal, through twilight skies,
quasi-exhausted;
for such religion, a gamble for beauty, an
installation
of sorrows. Oh for ripples, a beige mystique, to
flicker
through rapture. I whisper softly, the tears of nature,
ever
for abandoned; but oh she dreams, of attic flowers, a
gesture
in a garden. She longs impasto, a
thickened texture,
reaching
for portals. Such luminosity, fixed in friction, a
fraction
of stippled joys. I walk a spectrum, a ballet of
words,
teasing Urania; for much a desert, to envy love,
feuding
love. So feel for fuel, a tale of symmetry, afflicted
by
wildfires; for she walks gently, the soul’s aroma, as
palpable
as mystique. I die her rose, to gallop her pain, as
naked
as feelings.
